“I want you to go home. One of my boys will be watchin' for you. The cops will want to talk to you. Do whatever they ask?”
“What if they want me to go with them?”
“Then go. I'll know and I'll take care of it. Kate already knows you'll be a while. So don't worry about that.”
“Is she all right?”
He looked at me, the kind of questioning look that I would use to analyze a student's excuse for not handing in homework. “She's fine. They showed up early. Told them you took the morning off. So have some breakfast and then you can go.”
Spread on the table, the morning paper showed a picture of the newly-elected president, with a headline, “What Change Can We Expect?” Flynn saw me reading upside down. “So you really know this guy?”
“Know him? No. A different version of him. He and I were friends. In a different time. That president was a good guy. And he did a pretty good job, given the hand they dealt him. I can only imagine what he could have accomplished with a little help.”
“Do you think this one will be different?”
“Don't know. He's not gonna have an easy time. The whole world is a mess, not just in the U.S. But I'm sure everyone's waiting to see if it'll be more of the same, or if he really has some plans to fix things, and if Congress will let him.”
“Do you think they will?”
“Flynn, he's smart. But he's in a system that moves very slowly. People are scared, mostly for themselves. They think the government has forgotten them. They're looking for leadership, common sense, not handouts. They want what every society needs to function. Jobs that pay enough to support a family. Education and training for themselves and their kids. Adequate and affordable housing. Protection if they get sick. Laws that are just and fair, and justice that's even-handed.
“Now you sound like a teacher.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't be. You make sense. What else?”
“They want to know that government serves everyone. And they want to believe it will. Look at the turn-out to vote. Staggeringly small. But if he's like the guy in my dimension, he'll try to bring them back.”
“Then it sounds like we ought to pay attention. Maybe I will.” He pushed the newspaper over to me and said to eat and get home.
I arrived at the Cozy Kitchen in time to beat the lunch crowd. Kate smiled when she saw me. Seamus glanced up from the sink, still washing up from breakfast. Kathy and Jane were setting tables. Flynn sat at a table in the back, talking to a man in a suit I didn't recognize.
“You took your time,” Cindy said.
“You're right. My time. But I'm here for the lunch crowd, and I have a new idea for a sandwich.” She had her banter primed and ready, but a new menu item stopped her. “It'll mean we have the oven on through lunch.”
“We'll talk about it after the crowd. Do we need to buy different food?”
“Some. I have a name for it too.” Her forehead creases were pronounced. I couldn't get over the difference, now that I'd seen what she really looked like. “Blow Your Brains Out.”
“Don't talk to me like that.”
I snorted. “That's the name. And we'll put signs up or maybe a banner. Just “Blow Your Brains Out.”
“You're pretty chipper for being half a day late. Get to work.”
For a moment, I saw an image of my old kitchen table with Linda and Ashley as we traded barbs. “Yes, ma'am.” The image faded but the moment passed like molasses. Despite no longer having a home, the memory made me homesick.
When we closed up, Kate asked what had happened to my apartment. She'd asked me to stick around to talk about my new sandwich. But she hadn't mentioned it.
“The police were accommodating. Someone broke into my place. Nothing of value could have been stolen. They messed the place up a little, but probably only wanted money. I never leave it around. I even turn coins to paper when I reach ten dollars. I gave you all my cash last night. I need to check more closely.”
“About last night.” If voices could blush, she sounded full-on magenta. “I'm sorry if I was a bit forward.”
“Look, Cindy, we probably both had too much alcoholic assistance. I really don't have much of a memory about it. So don't even think about it.”
“Russ, I'm embarrassed at my behavior. I've never done anything like that. And you were asleep before, well, you know.”
“Really. No wonder I don't remember. Too bad. I wanted to ask if it was good for you.” She scowled and I grinned back. “Do you want to know about my new sandwich?”
“Not really. At least now.” She hesitated, and then said, “Would you like to come over for dinner?”
My heart did a flip in my chest, certainly not a reaction I expected. The idea of spending more time with her, with all of them, set off worry bells, but at the same time, inched me toward what I'd missed most.
“I have to go home and check if anything is missing, or find a clue to what they might have wanted. Why don't you come with me? We can grab a bite on the way back.”
She shook her head. “Maybe another time. I need to finish some plans for the trip. I thought we could talk while I work.”
“Then, another time it is. I'll take that raincheck.”
“It'll be hard calling you “Fritz”.
“Then don't. Russ fits nicely. Fritz is some other guy I used to know.”
Chapter 14
Ashley
A RINGING PHONE. The last thing I expected first thing on Monday morning. Not the quiet buzz of my cell, but the abrupt, heart-stopping blast of a wall phone in the kitchen. I ran to pick it up.
“Hello?”
“When did you start answering your phone?”
“Natalie?”
“Who else? I expected to leave a message, but since I have you, have you looked outside?”
“No. Why?”
“It's raining. The weather report is afternoon thunderstorms. Are you going to try your portal?”
“I don't know. I won't know until I get to school.”
“If you can open it, call me. I want to go with you.” I told her I would call only if the portal might open. Otherwise, she wouldn't hear from me. “Call me,” she said, and hung up.
With two weeks remaining before Christmas vacation, pleasing Natalie took a minor position in my priorities. If she could help, I'd call. But I'd much rather explore on my own. When I reached my classroom, I touched the doorknob, and when nothing happened, I went in. Sitting in the middle of my desk, a book about the Lost Generation in Paris dared me to check the paperclips on its pages.
I draped my coat over the chair back and turned to the pictures Sandy had selected. She'd picked people–Hemingway, Joyce, Fitzgerald. Even a group photo with Sylvia Beach in front. But the exact picture of Shakespeare and Co. that Fritz used before waited patiently for its own clip. If the weather cooperated.
While I thumbed through the book I'd not read, Sandy walked in. She asked me if that would work. I showed her the picture I wanted to use, and began piling her paperclips on the desk. She said, “I went to Shakespeare and Company the summer after my senior year in college. It didn't look like that.”
“You weren't paying attention. This one is the original, but when the Nazis took Paris, it closed. The building is still standing, with a historic marker. I haven't looked at stories about the new one.”
She said it didn't matter to her, and asked if I was ready to go. I told her I'd try it after school. Without saying a word, a skeptical look crossed the room. As she left, she glanced back and shook her head. I didn't care. She'd already shown her colors and I needed to find Fritz, not get her approval.
With the day almost ready to start, I took out my list of questions and selected the day's topic. “Are social issues important to governing or are they distractions from real problems?” I'd had this conversation with Fritz and Linda for years. I sat down and read the blackboard, looking forward to what my classes would think.
Starting with my first c
lass, and the first hand up, the question hit the core of their relationship with the world. “Both, Mr. Gilbert.”
“Fill me in, Jamie.”
“Well, social issues are the things that affect our lives every day. When the government makes them issues, they become important to people who care about them.”
“Like what?” Hands rose. I called on Glenn.
“Guns, abortion, religion, law and order,” he said. “And whatever the government does, someone won't be happy. If members of government make those issues most important, the real work they're elected to perform, like the economy and foreign relations, gets ignored.”
Debbie added, “That's why voting matters.
I can honestly say that I wasn't ready for the day to start that way. Nor was I prepared for another class to be so exhilarating. My students amazed me at how tuned-in they were, in light of what I'd witnessed of the lack of discipline in the hallways.
By the end of my next class, the kids had dissected the political parties, the government at all levels, and the election results, like political scientists would have. I wish I had been able to record all they said. Before they left, I said, “I know you aren't old enough to have voted, but if you could have, who would you have chosen. Raise your hands.” I asked first for Republicans, then Democrats. Only a smattering, almost equal, but only half the class. I asked the rest who they would have voted for. The majority said no one.
“In spite of your discussion, you'd still not vote?”
“Mr. Gilbert, with millions of people in the country, couldn't we find better people to vote for?” The bell rang.
Between classes, I ran to the office. I wanted to grab my morning paper to see if the weather report, the political news and the sports page were consistent with my computer's news. At the moment, I questioned if maybe something else had changed, if Fritz had done something that altered the present again. I'd never, I mean never, experienced classes like the ones I'd just finished. Or maybe the portal worked here, just as Fritz had said in our other life. The bell and the first clap of thunder sounded together. I reached into my pocket to make sure I had my keys.
The next period, my first group of seniors had begun the discussion without me. “Don't let me interrupt.” They didn't. I sat and listened to well-reasoned arguments about the Constitution, and how it applied to my question. Midway through, I asked my only question. “None of you has mentioned whether or not the constitution is cast in stone, and that only what the Founding Fathers wrote is permanent. Is the Constitution interpretable?”
“It has to be, Mr. Gilbert,” said one student. “They included a Supreme Court and left room for change through history with amendments. They couldn't know what changes would take place in the world, but they made room for future generations to decide how government should run.”
Another said, “The arguments that only the original document should be used are impossible. Even with all the historical documents written by the men at the time, we don't know, can't know, how they would react to inventions and growth.”
“Keep going, guys.”
They talked about a well-informed electorate, participation in the governing process, the importance of selecting good candidates, and how to reduce the influence of money in politics. After this class I would need to do my own research to provide more information. More homework for me, but they were giving me an opportunity.
When they left, I put my key in the desk, put Sandy's book on the left side, and walked out. I grabbed the doorknob and got a shock. If I opened the door, I'd be in Paris, so I pulled, peeked in, and shut it immediately. Shakespeare and Co. would have to wait.
After a few more classes, I really envied Fritz. I could understand why teaching this stuff became one of his favorite things. Only a few days had passed, and rather than fights in the hall, I observed students, when challenged, engaging in discussions, behaving more mature and serious than many adults. I put the key in my desk, and walked across the hall. Sandy waited for her next class, but I told her to come quickly. I tapped my doorknob. “We only have a few seconds, so let's go.”
“I have a class now.”
“Suit yourself.” I pulled the door open. In front of us, my classroom. I walked in, ignoring her. But what had gone wrong, I didn't know. I needed to find out. She followed me in.
“I thought we were going to Paris.” Again, I ignored her scoffing. “So what happened?”
“You have a class now.” I opened the book, and looked at the picture. The paperclip had moved. I took one from my drawer and replaced hers. The new one had a different touch, a tingle between my fingers. The bell put our trip on pause.
I'll see you later,” she said on the way out.
“Maybe. Meet me at the Eiffel Tower.”
Paperclips. I had a clue. And a few minutes left after lunch that I could use. On my way to the caf, a crowd had formed in the hall, another fight. The lesson I'd been taught, not to interfere, didn't set with me. I shoved the kids out of my way, asked a teacher to alert the police, and I waded in. As I reached the inner circle, I saw the knife. It'd been ten years since I'd stepped into a knife fight and I had a long scar to remind me. I slid my jacket off in a flash and wrapped it around my arm.
“Drop the knife.” I didn't recognize the attacker. “Drop it now.” He turned on me, and slashed. Deflecting his blow with my jacket, I hammered my left hook to his cheek. He dropped to a knee, but bounced up to stab at me. A slice of jacket split as the blade kept coming. I seized his wrist with my left hand, swiveled and with my back pressed against him, slammed him into the wall behind us. Glancing around, I was on my own. His breath was on my neck, so I started to squat, and with the back of my head, smashed his face. The knife hit the floor as he reached for his nose. From the corner of my eye, I saw someone reaching down for the blade.
“Don't touch it,” I yelled.
The soft baritone of Al Kennedy said, “Ashley, let him go.” He picked up the knife. “I'm glad someone finally ignored George's rules. Now, all of you have somewhere to be. Get going.”
“Thanks.”
“Never figured you'd be in the middle of this. What happened?”
“No idea. Al, stop everyone from leaving. Teachers too. Let's find out.”
Al collared two of the bigger boys and one teacher nabbed two girls. The rest of the crowd scattered.
“So what happened here?” I asked. When I got no answer, I asked them if they had ever heard of being an accessory to attempted murder.
“Murder, what murder?” George had arrived. I told him what had occurred and mentioned that I had been attacked.
“You wouldn't have been if you followed the rules.”
“And if I hadn't, someone else might have been hurt. I can't believe you allow weapons in school.”
“You don't make the rules here, Mr. Gilbert, in case you've forgotten. And now we have an incident. Insurance, police, newspapers. I think it's time for another discussion. You know what this means.”
I looked around, expecting support. My colleagues it seems had no interest in confronting the principal. Instead, down the hall, Chief Shaw and three officers approached us.
I picked up my jacket, and looked for the knife. Al had fled with the rest. In fact, only one bloody kid, George and I were all that waited for the reinforcements.
“Thanks for coming so quickly, Chief,” George said. “It seems Mr. Gilbert has a hearing problem. He attacked this young man.”
“Now wait a minute, George. I broke up a fight. This young man, as you call him, came at me with a knife.”
“So where's the weapon?” asked the chief.
“Al Kennedy picked it up. I don't know where he went.”
“Now you're blaming a teacher.”
“I am a teacher, George. A responsible one, unlike the cowards you've created. They could have stopped this. You could have prevented it.” George's burn peaked. And I was alone. “Chief Shaw, you got here too late to see, but how can we teach
if teachers are too afraid of rules to keep these kids safe?”
“We'll talk later, Mr. Gilbert. Right now, our job is to investigate the incident and file reports. I'll talk to you later. Will you be here?”
“Where else would I be?”
“I don't know. Paris?”
With that, a clap of thunder reminded me that I had another plan for lunch.
“Do you need me for anything else?” The chief shook his head, but George said he wanted to see me after school. “I have a meeting with a student after school.”
“Then be quick about it. I have more important things to do than constantly disciplining you. And stop making faces when I'm talking to you.”
“I'm not making faces. That's just how I look.” He wasn't getting the last word this time. I glanced at my watch and hurried off. With fewer minutes than I'd hoped, I put the key in my desk lock. I walked back into the hall and peeked through Sandy's window. She looked back. I grabbed the door and pulled. Inside was a quiet street.
“Back again, Gilbert? So where's your bride-to-be?” Standing at the table, Ernest Hemingway grinned at me.
“You know who I am, that's good. I can't stay. The universe is upside down. Fritz is lost in here somewhere. I'm testing the portal to be sure I can use it.”
“Sounds like you have a great story in the making.”
“I wish I had the time to tell you the whole thing. Do me a favor, Hemingway. If he should show up, tell him to write a note and tell me how to find him. I'm sure I'll be back.”
“It would be my pleasure. Say, how would it be if I come back with you now, just for a bit?”
I could imagine Sandy's face, being introduced to this man. I started to decline, but said, “Sure, but just for a moment.” How much more trouble could I be in? So one more time, Ernest Hemingway stepped into Riverboro High School, but in a different world.
I asked him to hold the door, keeping the street scene alive. Sandy's annoyance flared when I opened her door and waved her to the hall. She stopped two steps out when she saw, not my desk, but rather a street with café tables and umbrellas. She looked at the man at the door and gasped.
The Portal At The End Of The Storm (Quantum Touch Book 6) Page 10