Time Out of Mind

by John R. Maxim

  ”A bit later, then. If you were to try to see him in your mind, assuming you knew him, what would he be like as an older boy and where would that be?”

  Corbin blinked once, then several times more rapidly. Sturdevant had a sense that a picture was forming but that Corbin was about to shake it away.

  “Jonathan,” he said quietly, “I'd like you to try to envision him. Just allow a picture, a scene, a scene to float into place. Don't force it but don't resist it either. To help it along, please sit comfortably in my chair. That desk must be getting awfully hard.”

  Gwen Leamas caught her uncle's eye and made a small quick nod of encouragement. Jonathan had, come to think of it, seemed somewhat bemused by that picture while Harry was out of the room.

  Corbin made a face, unseen. The desk must be getting hard, yet. Next he'll be saying you feel relaxed and are getting sleepy. Corbin thought of going back and sitting with them at the little round table. But he didn't want to. It felt too much like a seance. This end of the room was more fun anyway. But the desk actually was hard and Corbin did stand up again. He turned toward Sturdevant, mild annoyance showing in his eyes.

  “Does that photograph upset you in any way, Jonathan?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Then perhaps it's a nice ünthreatening place to start. You did react to that photo. Was there anything in your reaction that surprised you?”

  “That he was president,” Corbin answered. Then his eyes clouded over as he wondered why he said that. He knew only that there was something amusing about the thought. He bit his lip to keep from smiling.

  “You look as though that notion strikes you as funny and yet you're resisting it. What's happening is that you're responding to two different levels of consciousness. The two appear to be in conflict, so you reject the one that has the least tangible substance. We all do that, Jonathan. All the time. Please try not to in this instance. What surprised you about Roosevelt being president?’'

  “That he ... that he pulled it off. No one in their wildest dreams ever thought he could . . .” Corbin's voice trailed off. But he let the smile happen.

  “Become president?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you recall the circumstances?”

  '”No ... yes. He was vice president. Then McKinley got shot.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No.”

  “Jonathan, do you feel that you knew him?”

  Corbin hesitated for a moment. The answer was yes but his impulse was to deny it. He felt as though he knew Abraham Lincoln, too, but that didn't mean he did. But he also knew that wasn't what Sturdevant meant. The high-backed chair began to look good after all.

  “That's good, Jonathan. Just lean back and relax. Let your body feel heavy and warm and safe and very, very relaxed.”

  Gwen touched her uncle's arm. “Hypnosis?” She mouthed the word.

  Sturdevant smiled. “My niece sees that you're relaxing at last, Jonathan, and she asks whether you're being hypnotized like the lady from Colorado. You're not, are you? You're simply finding a little peace.”

  Corbin barely heard him. His mind was on a boy with skinny arms and glasses and reddish hair.

  “We were talking about Teddy,” Sturdevant said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “If you'd lived in the same city at the same time, don't you think you would have known each other?”

  “I'd know his name, who he was. Our parents would have known each other better.”

  “But you would have had friends your own age. Wouldn't Teddy have been a friend?”

  ”I don't think he had many friends. Not then. Your friends are mostly boys from school. Teddy didn't go to school. He had tutors. Besides ...”

  “Besides what, young man?”

  “Besides, Teddy was older. He was two years older.”

  “How old was he?” Sturdevant reached for Gwen's arm and squeezed it.

  “Sixteen, I think.”

  “And you are fourteen?”

  “Yes. But just as big.”

  “Where did you meet him? You did meet him, didn't you?”

  “Yes. It was in the Rhinelanders' stable. It was just down from ours in the mews in back of our house. It's where I met John Flood, too.”

  Gwen flipped two pages of her spiral notebook and underscored the name Big John Flood, holding it up for her uncle to see. Sturdevant nodded.

  “John Flood was the man who taught you to box?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that the same John Flood who once fought John L. Sullivan? I believe they called him the Bear's Head ... no, the Bull's Head Terror.”

  “What?” Corbin seemed confused.

  “Oh, nothing. My mistake.” Sturdevant chewed his lip. “How old was John Flood, by the way?”

  “Eighteen, perhaps. But he often passed much older.”

  Ah, Sturdevant thought, that was it. If it is the same Big John Flood who fought John L. on a barge up in Yonkers, this must be a much younger version.

  “John Flood was handy with his fists all the same. Correct?”

  “He was teaching Teddy. Teddy was always calling other boys out when they insulted him but he was always getting whipped. He was getting a real drubbing once from Todd Fisher and John Flood came by on a beer wagon and pulled them apart. He told Teddy he'd best either grow a few stone or learn the fancy.”

  “The fancy?”

  “That's what the English called pugilism. He said all the young bloods were learning it. From all the best famines.”

  “John Flood was English?”

  Corbin chuckled. “You dasn't say that to John. He'll rear up on you for sure. His father still carries the cut of a British officer's saber across his back.”

  ”I see. And Teddy Roosevelt took him up on his suggestion?”

  “He went and had one lesson. How to hold his hands and to jab. How to measure your blows so you don't crack

  a knuckle. How to block and smother punches and how to trip up the other fellow and throw him down. Actually,

  Teddy's father had Teddy taking boxing lessons a full year before that. Even had a gymnasium set up at his house over

  on Twentieth Street. Teddy knew how to box. John Flood taught him how to fight. There's a difference, John told

  him. Afterward, Teddy went out looking for Todd Fisher again.” '

  “And whipped him?”

  “No. Todd drubbed him worse than before. Todd just ducked under those jabs and grabbed him in a bear hug and bit Teddy's ear near off. Then he threw Teddy down and jumped on his chest. John Flood showed Teddy how to do just that but Teddy wouldn't, don't you know. So Todd started punching up Teddy's face and I couldn't bear that so I grabbed Todd by the hair and pulled him off. I hit him too. I cut my knuckles on his teeth” Corbin held up his right fist as if to show the scar. “Then Todd went wild and started smashing me but soon Teddy was wading back into him. Todd was so crazy mad he probably would have whipped us both except that a big German woman came out of her store that we were having this grand battle in front of and began smacking all three of us with a broom. Todd backed off first. Teddy and I still wanted to have at him but the German woman between us was holding that broom like Friar Tuck's staff. Todd's mouth was bloody but what bothered him most was that his pants were split clear up the back and some of the other boys were laughing at that. He called us cowards for ganging up on him and he said he'd get us.”

  “Did he?”

  “He tried. Teddy fought him one more time after a few more lessons from John. This time he learned slipping and dodging. And how to bite down on soft wood while you're fighting lest you get your jaw broken. That's what Teddy did to Todd at last. For good measure he put a pair of shanties on his glimmers.”

  ”I beg your pardon.”

  Corbin grinned, embarrassed. “That's some slang John uses. It means black eyes.”

  “And that was the last of Todd Fisher.”

  “No, indeed.” Corbin touched a finger
to his once broken nose, quite proudly, Sturdevant thought. “It wasn't a fortnight before he came after me.”

  “With a broken jaw?”

  “Yes, sir, but with a pair of knucks. He broke my nose and laid open my brow with a single jab before I tackled him and brought him down. Then I left my mark on him good and proper. John Flood says you should always finish your man and leave your mark on him. The, mark on a beaten man always goes deep, he says. He'll always fear the man who gave it to him. John says it's not the same with the marks he put on me. Those are better than medals, John says. And anyway, one more good scrap could straighten out my nose as good as new.”

  “In any case, I gather you and Teddy Roosevelt became good friends.”

  “Yes, until I went back to middle school after the Easter holiday.”

  “What about after that?”1

  “Our families summer in different places. And then his family moved up to Fifty-seventh Street and we saw each other less often for a while.”

  Sturdevant arched an eyebrow toward Gwen to see if she'd caught Corbin's first use of the present tense. She was busy scribbling. She held a note out to Sturdevant but, preoccupied, he waved it off.

  “Have you never heard the name John L. Sullivan?” he asked the boy in Corbin's mind. “Or of a prizefight between him and John Flood?”

  “No, sir. John often speaks of trying his hand in the prize ring after he's saved enough of a stake to bet on himself. His father was a prizefighter, you know. Gentleman Jimmy Flood, he was called. John says his dah was never knocked off his feet by any man save John Barleycorn.”

  “What about John L. Sullivan, speaking of prizefighters? Or Paddy Ryan or Jake Kilrain? Ever heard of them?”

  ”I haven't, sir.”

  Gwen Leamas threw up her hands and leaned toward Harry Sturdevant’s ear. ”I don't know how you managed this, but now that you have, will you stop with those damned boxers? Ask him something useful. And for heaven's sake, don't call him Jonathan.”

  “It's fascinating,” Harry Sturdevant whispered. “Like a window into another era. Jonathan seems to have locked in on a single ancestral experience. He's never heard of Sullivan or Kilrain because no one else had either at that point. If I asked him about Ella or Margaret, he wouldn't know what I was talking about.”

  “You can ask him about himself. You can ask him his bloody name.”

  “Of course.” Sturdevant banged his forehead. “Stupid of me.”

  “Ask him.”

  “Young man, does the name Tilden mean anything to you?”

  Again, Corbin seemed confused. “You mean the governor, sir?”

  “No, not the—” Sturdevant cleared his throat. “What governor?”

  “Samuel Tilden, sir. Governor of New York.”

  “Urn, is that the only Tilden you can think of?”

  Gwen showed her teeth. “Will you please, dear Uncle Harry, simply ask him what his full name is?”

  “Oh my goodness,” Harry Sturdevant gasped.

  “What?”

  “Boxing,” he whispered. “I've just realized where I've seen that face before. There's always been something familiar about Jonathan.”

  “Uncle Harry, I'm about to dig my nails into you.”

  “Young man, your given name is Tilden as well, isn't it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You're Tilden Beckwith.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your father's name?”

  “Stanton Beckwith, sir.”

  “Tilden, do you recall the name Schuyler Sturdevant?”

  “Yes, sir. He's been to some of my mother's entertainments.”

  “What is his profession?”

  “He ... he's a gentleman, sir.”

  “He has no profession? How does he occupy his time?”

  “Mr. Sturdevant enjoys coaching, sir. And I think he races trotters up in Harlem. On Sundays he and Father both play baseball for the Murray Hill Maroons.”

  “And prizefights. Does he go to prizefights?”

  “Oh, I shouldn't think so, sir. Matches at his club, perhaps, but not a prizefight.”

  Gwen did dig her nails into Harry Sturdevant’ s hand. “What is going on here? Who is Schuyler?”

  “My grandfather. This is incredible.”

  “But your grandfather was a doctor too.”

  “Not yet apparently. He had his fun first until he was thirty. Shhh! Now comes the tricky part.” Sturdevant leaned forward on the edge of his chair. “Tilden, where are you at this moment?”

  “In the park, sir.”

  “What park is that?”

  “Gramercy Park.”

  ”I see. And where is Jonathan?”

  “You just blew it.” Gwen punched him.

  “Jonathan, sir?”

  “Jonathan Corbin. Do you know that name?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Oh God, Uncle Harry.” Gwen felt a knotting in her stomach. “Oh God, it's what he's most afraid of. Not being able to get back.”

  “He seems all right. Shhh!”

  “You'd better bring him out of it. Now.”

  ”I didn't put him in it.”

  “You hypnotized him.”

  “No, Gwen. I didn't.” Sturdevant was beginning to perspire.

  Jonathan Corbin, the boy repeated to himself. The name did have a familiar ring to it but he was quite sure he did not know the person. The only Corbin he'd ever even heard of was the one married to President Grant's sister. That was Abel Corbin. He was one of the schemers who tried to help Jay Gould corner all the country's gold during the president's first term. Tilden didn't fully understand what they did, but he remembered that it was all his father and his father's associates talked about for quite a time because it nearly ruined some of them. Still, they seemed to admire the daring of the attempt. Though they did not admire Mr. Corbin. Father called him a covetous wretch with the morals of a slaver. And surely not Mr. Gould, whom Mother insists that neither she nor any other respectable hostess will receive.

  Tilden glanced at the lengthening shadow of a Japanese maple tree and then at the western sky through its rust-colored leaves. Father would be home for supper soon. And Tilden had promised to read at least one more chapter of Around the World in Eighty Days and be prepared to recite at the table. He would have to ask this old gentleman to excuse him.

  “Jonathan?”

  Tilden blinked. He had not noticed the woman before. She was just suddenly there at the old gentleman's elbow and ... my goodness ... my goodness, she's wearing trousers. And a man's shirtwaist. And she's painted almost like a Sixth Avenue doxy.

  “Jonathan! It's me. It's Gwen.”

  That name again. Now it seemed much more familiar. He wanted to tell her that he was assuredly not this Jonathan and that he could not recall making her acquaintance but now she too began to seem familiar. And that was impossible. He had never seen a woman like her, never in his life, not even in books. A handsome woman to be sure. Quite handsome. But so bold. So direct in manner. So ... almost manly. Oh... oh, my goodness. At the thought of her masculine dress and bearing, Tilden's eyes had dropped to her bosoms. They were moving. Her bosoms were jouncing as she walked toward him, rhythmically, like a carriage on its springs. Tilden felt his cheeks burst into flame, but he could not look away. Her shirtwaist was open a full four inches from the throat and he could see an expanse of flesh that was tinted almost golden, the way yachtsmen are tanned and ruddied by the sun. She was reaching for him now. Leaning down to him. Her fingertips cool and thrilling against his ears. He felt a thumping below his stomach as she drew his face closer, now touching, now pressed against a softness more wonderful than the finest goose-down pillow.

  Tilden wanted to raise his hands, to touch her, to feel the firm warmth of her waist and hips, which he knew would not be bound within the bone and steel of a corset. On her breast there would be none of the wire forms resembling twin kitchen strainers such as he'd seen in his mother's room. None of the shifts a
nd thick chemises he'd seen in the advertisements marked For the Woman of the House Only, which came in the mail from Macy's and A. T. Stewart's. But he did not raise his hands. He could not. He kept them folded tightly across his lap to contain the humiliation that would harden and rise in spite of his desperate wish that it should not. She must have seen it. She's angry. Upset. Shaking me. Oh, so embarrassing. Even the old gentleman, peering over her shoulder into my eyes. Oh, if I could die. Shaking me ... wait... wait a second ... “Gwen?”

  “Thank God.” She released his shoulders and straightened. Corbin brought his knuckles to his eyes.

  “What's the matter? I dozed off?”

  “Nothing's the matter.” Sturdevant pinched Gwen's arm, unseen. “As you say, you dozed off. You looked like you were having a bad dream.”

  “Bad dream?” Corbin stretched and shook his head. “No. It was about Gwen, I think.” That's right, he nodded to himself. Gwen and her uncle, too. But in the dream he didn't think he knew them. In the dream he'd been struck by what a sleek and sexy lady she was, just like the first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. It's funny how you can get so used to the good things in your life you almost stop seeing them sometimes. “It wasn't a bad dream at all,” he said to her. “'I think I was falling in love with you all over again.”