by Tim Black
“I only told Mom. Dad was at the hospital. He’d go ballistic. And he would ground me, so that was only a little bit of a lie to Junior. Mom’s got me covered though; she’ll tell him I’m taking my college boards. Dad won’t know the difference. I mean, he’s here physically but not really mentally, if you know what I mean?”
“Uh huh. My dad doesn’t even know I’m alive. It’s all about Junior. Junior this, Junior that. My dad wanted to be a football star, but he didn’t quite make it—although he was pretty good, I think, in high school. He seems to be living his life over again with Junior. You know, it is sort of funny, Minerva. Dad dotes on Junior, the football hero, as if Junior being a big football star would somehow have an impact on the world. Look what a group of nerds did today to the history of the United States.”
“A little more than they should have, it looks like,” Minerva said.
“I know we have to fix it, Minerva, but I sort of like the idea of Benedict Arnold being a hero. I mean, if he hadn’t met Peggy Shippen and she wasn’t such a little sneak he never would have met that British spy and become a traitor, and what the heck, I’ve never been much of a fan of John Adams.”
“He’s not a very likeable man,” Minerva agreed. “But I don’t understand how we are going to put things back to the proper order.”
“Well, as I understand it, we have to relive the day in Philadelphia and not mess up anything, which means, just sit there quietly and let the day pass without interacting with anyone.”
“That’s sounds really boring.”
“It might be, but we have to do it. I’d better get going. I want to get my mom’s car back home before my dad and Junior get back from the game.”
“That’s fine. I’ve got to wash my dress for tomorrow anyway. Bette Kromer is picking me up. Do you need a ride?”
“I’d appreciate one, yeah; my mom needs her car for food shopping on Saturdays.”
She walked Victor to the door and gave him a short goodbye kiss and watched him drive off in his mother’s SUV. She would spend the day with Victor Bridges tomorrow in a return trip to Philadelphia. But in her imagination, she would spend her wedding day beside him. She shook the thought from her head. That image would have to wait until after she graduated from medical school.
As she put her dress into the laundry room dryer, she received a text message from Bette Kromer that read: “Them 35 US zippo.” Poor Junior, she thought, I hope he has a backup plan.
Chapter 17
Nathan Greene arrived at Cassadaga Area High School before dawn, a good two hours before his students were to arrive. Dressed once again in colonial garb, he carried both Rodney’s riding crop and the cane that he had received from Ben Franklin. He trudged to his portable in the darkness with trepidation, for he had been summoned at this early hour. As he approached his classroom he saw the flickering lights, like so many fat fireflies illuminating the building. They were already gathered, he realized, ready to hold court. He counted a dozen flickers as he entered the classroom and he knew that they were angry, for when a ghost was angry he glowed in the dark.
Sheepishly Nathan Greene turned on the light to the portable and the ghosts became visible to him. They floated to seats in the classroom and suddenly each ghost had a name tag that read whimsically: “Hi, I’m Shelby Foote” or “Hi, I’m Barbara Tuchman,” and Nathan realized it was Mary Beard trying to inject a bit of levity into the proceedings. He wished she would just stick with her levitation and skip the levity. It was an august body of dead historians and the angriest of all seemed to be the historian Henry Adams who, Nathan assumed, was really ticked at what had happened to his grandfather and great-grandfather.
No one said anything. Nathan Greene took a seat at his teacher’s desk but was afraid to speak. The dead historians had never before reprimanded him.. Even last spring when Victor had run after John Wilkes Booth, no dead historians had appeared to chastise Nathan for his lack of discipline on a trip. Would they take away his visiting privileges, he wondered? No more trips to the past? He enjoyed the journeys as much as his students, probably more. He didn’t want to think of life without the past, the real past. These twelve were not just dead historians, they were a jury, Nathan realized, and the jury was waiting for someone, for even Mrs. Beard was silent, waiting, anticipating.
Suddenly a 13th ghost appeared. Bearded, sandaled, wearing a white robe, the 13th ghost looked as if he had just come from the Acropolis in Athens. Indeed, the 13th ghost was Thucydides the Greek, the first real historian, a scientific historian, not that silly little Herodotus who wrote down whatever whopper anyone fed him. Thucydides looked sternly at Nathan Greene and spoke in Greek, which was truly Greek to Nathan Greene.
“Try English, Thucie,” Mary Beard said.
“Thucie?” Nathan Greene wondered if Mary Beard had something going with the old ghost.
Thucydides tried again. “Nathan Greene,” he said in English. “You have been charged with altering history by the Adams family. How do you plead?”
I’m in big trouble, Nathan realized. I need to seek a delay to be able to fix it.
“With the court’s permission, your historical honor,” Nathan Greene began, “I would like to ask for a postponement, as I have not had a chance to go over the specific charges or obtain counsel.”
“You don’t get counsel here, fat boy!” Henry Adams shouted.
“Order in the court, Mr. Adams,” Thucydides cautioned. “That is not an unreasonable request, Mr. Greene. I will grant you twenty-four hours continuance so that you can prepare your defense or correct the timeline, but I caution you, Mr. Greene, if you are found guilty of altering the past, this sinkhole will be closed forever and the historical timeline will be off limits to you and your students. I must also ask you to return Caesar Rodney’s riding crop to Charles Beard. The Beards travel privileges are hereby revoked until further notice. Mr. Henry Adams, being the aggrieved Adams family’s most notable historian, has now been assigned as your spirit guide from this point on.”
The ghost of Henry Adams grinned delightedly.
“But…the riding crop…”
“We understand that you are planning a return to Philadelphia today, Mr. Greene, but we cannot chance another mistake with the riding crop, nor can we risk leaving you or your students in the past due to the chaos that would portend. Also, under no circumstances are you or anyone in your party allowed to talk to Margaret Shippen of Philadelphia, better known as Peggy Shippen. Is that clear?”
“Crystal clear, your honor.”
“Any travel you commence today must be accomplished by the use of Ben Franklin’s cane. Please hand me the cane.”
“Yes, sir,” Nathan Greene said, handing the ghost of Thucydides Benjamin Franklin’s cane. The Greek historian blew on the end and the bamboo began to glow.
“There,” he said, handing the cane back to Nathan. “I’ve activated the talisman in the cane. It is usable now and will be good until 1790, when Franklin dies.”
That was something Nathan Greene hadn’t known. Some ghost had to activate the talisman qualities of Rodney’s cane somewhere along the line. The Beards had never told him that. Perhaps even the Beards had gone to “Thucie” to have Rodney’s crop activated.
“This court will reconvene in twenty-four hours if necessary,” Thucydides said and closed the proceedings. Most of the ghosts vanished, but Mary Beard stayed behind to speak to Nathan Greene.
“I’m afraid we’ve really upset the Adams family, Mr. Greene,” she said. “I mean, it was a sore spot in the family that neither John nor John Quincy could get reelected to a second term, but for them to be erased from the presidency all together—well, Henry and his brother Brooke, also a historian, pitched a fit, let me tell you, and Henry demanded to take my place as your spirit guide. I’m afraid you and your students will have to read The Education of Henry Adams to make it up to him.”
Nathan Greene nodded. It only seemed fair. He had forced the Beards’ theories on his s
tudents in exchange for Rodney’s riding crop, and although he was not a big fan of the Adams family, Nathan could see the legitimacy of their grievance. How in the world did Peggy Shippen ever get to the Graff House to meet Thomas Jefferson and not marry Benedict Arnold? What had they done? He didn’t know.
Mary Beard floated away. Henry Adams left Nathan Greene alone as well. He readied the portable for another trip to the past, bullet hole through the window and all. Well, that was one positive about a return trip—the window would be fixed. They were going to land in the field once again and find a bench to sit on and not move from that spot the whole day if possible, so that time could pass without their changing a thing.
After a time the sun was up and Nathan Greene heard a car in the parking lot a hundred yards off. He noticed his five students, dressed appropriately, all together, having come to school in one vehicle. They were like a team, he realized, wondering if he should rename the club “The History Team” instead of The History Channelers.
Henry Adams reappeared. Nathan Greene was surprised: Henry Adams did not seem angry, only wistful as he stood beside Nathan watching the students approach. Nathan remembered that Henry Adams had been a history teacher at Harvard.
“Mr. Greene,” Henry Adams said. “I once wrote, ‘A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops,’ but I did not really mean it in quite the way you accomplished it. Still, seeing the students reminds me of my classes at Cambridge.”
“Mr. Adams, I assure you I have no idea how we changed the life of your ancestors or Benedict Arnold.”
Henry Adams replied, “All experience is an arch, to build upon.”
“Chapter six,” Nathan Greene replied.
“You have read my work, Mr. Greene?”
“Of course, Mr. Adams. The Education of Henry Adams is a classic. I read it in college. ‘Young men have a passion for regarding their elders as senile’—I sometimes use that in class when my students think I’m an old man.”
Henry Adams brightened.
Flattery would get him somewhere with Henry Adams, he sensed. Thank the Lord I read his seminal work, Nathan Greene thought, as the students, adorned in their outfits from the day before, filed in the door. Adams won the Pulitzer for that book, he recalled.
“Good morning, students,” Nathan Greene said.
The Anderson twins replied with a grumpy good morning in stereo, but Bette, Minerva and Victor were cheerful in response.
“Please say hello to historian and retired Harvard professor Henry Adams…we will be reading his autobiography The Education of Henry Adams next semester.”
“Are you related to John Adams, Mr. Adams?” Bette asked.
“He was my great-grandfather,” the ghost replied.
“I sure am sorry we messed things up for him,” Bette said.
The ghost half-smiled.
“It’s my fault, Mr. Adams, don’t punish Mr. Greene,” Victor said. “Peggy Shippen asked us where we were staying and the only thing that came to mind was the Graff House, and she came looking for us I guess and met Thomas Jefferson.”
“So that’s it!” Nathan Greene said. “Victor, you…again?”
“It was just a chance remark, Mr. Greene,” Victor said.
“Don’t forget the Greene glasses, Mr. Greene,” Minerva said in defense of Victor.
Nathan Greene agreed that he was not entirely without fault, but that Victor’s faux pas was the far worse tear in the timeline, which led to an animated argument in the class, pitting teacher against students, each of whom backed up Victor, to Nathan Greene’s chagrin. They were even acting like rebels against King Nathan, he thought, and they were taking Franklin’s words to heart: “We should all hang together or surely we will all hang separately.” He was strangely ambivalent about his students, annoyed that they were challenging him, but at the same time proud of their fighting spirit. They were acting like teenage Patriots in a way.
Henry Adams intervened before anyone lost his or her temper. “There is enough guilt to share,” he said. “What one knows is, in youth, of little moment; they know enough who know how to learn.”
“What does he mean by that?” Heath Anderson asked.
“He means being young we don’t have a lot of experience,” Minerva explained. “But if we are willing to learn, we can learn, that sort of thing.”
The ghost of Henry Adams smiled at Minerva. “You are a wise child, my dear,” he said.
“She’s our valedictorian and I can’t even spell the word,” Justin said in a bit of self-effacement.
“Okay, everyone fasten your seat belts please,” Nathan Greene said. “I’m going to try to land us in the same wheat field we were in yesterday.” He waggled Ben Franklin’s cane around in a flourish then tapped it on the computer screen.
Henry Adams, unimpaired by a mortal body, floated effortlessly about the classroom as the portable took off for the past, shaking and rattling far worse than it had only the day before. WD-40, Nathan Greene thought. I need to crawl underneath the portable and oil a few things. Oh, and what have we here? Minerva Messinger and Victor Bridges were holding hands in his classroom.
Nathan Greene glared at Victor and he dropped his hand from Minerva’s immediately, as if the teacher’s Darth Vader look were a hot poker to his skin. Minerva gave Victor a frown.
So, Nathan Greene thought, it wasn’t only Peggy Shippen that found a boyfriend yesterday. Victor Bridges had sat across from Minerva Messinger for the entire school year, and Nathan Greene was certain the Victor was infatuated with Minerva, but too shy to make a move. He guessed he was wrong about that, Nathan Greene told himself as he readied the portable for a landing, pleased that he was placing it down in the precise spot in the wheat field where he had landed the classroom only the day and two hundred thirty-seven years before.
Let’s synchronize our iPods,” Mr. Greene said as the portable stopped shaking. “I have 8:01.”
As Mr. Greene spoke, ink bottles, quills and a roll of parchment appeared on all the students’ desks, and Nathan Greene’s teacher’s desk as well. Next came copies of Common Sense. Startled, Nathan Greene realized the book was a first edition with a publication date of 1776 and was signed by the author, Thomas Paine.
The ghost of Henry Adams took charge.
“I’m afraid today that you, Mr. Greene, are a student as well and will have to join your class in punishment. Students, please gather the materials on your desk and follow me out the door into the Philadelphia air.”
The newest student to the class, Nathan Greene followed behind his younger classmates as Henry Adams led the group to a row of public benches on Arch Street, only a few blocks away from the Betsy Ross house. Nathan was saddened to think that Betsy Ross wouldn’t remember him from yesterday, that no one would be there to catch Thomas Jefferson’s infernal horseflies or listen, that none of those things would occur if they just made it through the day without interacting with the local inhabitants.
“Everyone take a seat on a bench and unfurl your roll of parchment,” Henry Adams directed. “This morning, until noon, we will have a writing assignment, and in the afternoon you will have a reading assignment, which is Common Sense. Perhaps you have read it, but you are going to reread it. You are not to move from this spot unless accompanied by me. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Mr. Adams,” the students said.
“I don’t believe I heard your response, Nathan,” Henry Adams said.
Nathan Greene could feel the blood rush to his face in embarrassment. How humiliating to be chastised in front of one’s own students. Suck it up, he thought, if you ever want to use the timeline again, grovel, Nathan, grovel.
“Yes, Mr. Adams,” he said grudgingly.
“Good. Okay, unroll your parchment and using your quills and ink to write the following sentence one thousand times: “I am sorry I changed history and I will never change history again.”
There were collective groans from the students, including N
athan Greene, but what else could he do? He was thinking of the commemorative coin for Virginia and the image on the back of Old Dominion’s coin: Their spring field trip should be to Jamestown. Yes, that was it, Nathan Greene, Jamestown in the spring. The mosquitoes should be really bad then and the kids would probably like to meet the real Pocahontas.
Nathan Greene smiled and dipped his quill into the ink bottle. His hand was going to be really sore by the end of the day, he realized.
THE END