The Time Change Trilogy-Complete Collection

by Alex Myers

  “That sounds wonderful.”

  “We’ve set foot on the moon, for Christ’s sake.”

  “The moon?” she said incredulously.

  “The moon. That happened before I was born.”

  “So people travel back and forth to the moon?”

  “Ah, no. We haven’t been back there since I was a baby.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Why?”

  “At first we went to prove it could be done. It cost billions of dollars. I guess there wasn’t a compelling enough reason to go back.”

  She looked away and didn’t speak for a while. Then she said, “But with all these wonderful things, surely people don’t go to bed hungry? And war? War has to be a thing of the past?”

  He grimaced. “It’s worse than ever.”

  “And that magical stuff still doesn’t make a difference?”

  “Not really, and I guess that bothers me too,” Jack said. He noticed that Frances had turned his way and seemed as open and as understanding as he had ever seen her. “I can’t comprehend how everyone says they are outraged by war—yet it still happens.”

  She seemed confused. “Why does it still happen then? Does everyone just say what they think everybody else wants to hear?”

  “You almost have an excuse nowadays. Compared to my world, you’re totally isolated.”

  “Isolated? What do you mean by that?”

  “The most horrible thing in the world could be happening one hundred miles away and you wouldn’t hear about it for days—possibly weeks—or years if it’s on the other side of the world.” Jack sat aching with a pain he’d felt for a long time. In spite of his knowledge, in spite of his intelligence, in spite of his opportunities, he’d always felt so ineffectual. He felt like he had never made any difference. That the world wasn’t a better place because he was in it.

  Frances put her hand on top of his and patted it. His pain was still there, assuaged a bit because of her nearness. He felt his eyes begin to well up. His strong emotions were caused not only by the topic of their conversation, but also by his lifelong, self-imposed isolation. The emotions of the last two weeks now overwhelmed him. He felt his throat constrict and before he could control it, a tear rolled down his cheek. He tried quickly to wipe it but not before she saw it.

  Clearly, Frances Sanger was not used to seeing a man cry. At first, she shrank from Jack, but then stiffly she moved closer and put her arm around him. After a while she spoke. “I believe you. Do men in 2012 go around crying all the time? Why are you so upset?”

  “I wasn’t crying. That was something in my eye.” Jack looked at her, thoroughly pissed at himself for letting his guard down, and he could see the consternation on her face.

  “You have to understand,” she said. “In my family, crying is considered a weakness. Women are taught not to cry. And men! Why, my father would cut off his arm before he’d cry.”

  She took her arm away from his back and then replaced it. She looked for a handkerchief and when she couldn’t find one, she offered the hem of her dress for him to wipe his eyes. “I’m so confused,” she said. “Crying means you’re weak—but you don’t seem weak.”

  After a while, Jack cleared his throat and pulled himself together. “I believe,” he said, “that each of us is put on this earth for a purpose—however big or small. I’ve ignored my purpose . . . I feel like I’ve been given some gifts. I also feel like I’ve been running away from them my whole life.”

  “It seems to me that with all this thinking about things, you’re going to drive yourself crazy. Why don’t you just do the things that you need to do?” Frances asked.

  She walked away from him. When she turned, she looked as though she’d made her mind up. “I’ve always been a person of action,” she said, “and when you see a problem, you need to do something to fix it. If you are going to find the answer as to what brought you here, you’re not going to do it by torturing yourself. While you’re here, you need to be here— mind, body and soul. Do you not realize how you can use your knowledge of the future to help the world of today?”

  He lifted his head and looked into her compassionate eyes. “This is so screwed up!”

  “Wait a minute . . . how much do you know about my time now?”

  “A little, not enough. Why?”

  “There’s been something weighing heavily on my mind. It’s all everyone is talking about, it seems. This slavery issue. How is it resolved in the future?”

  This was the first time other than the time Jack had seen the original newspaper headline that he thought about just where exactly in history fate had decided to throw him.

  He shook his head miserably and spoke the words slowly. “It’s going to be bad.”

  “Bad?” She looked frightened. “War?”

  “The most devastating war in American history.”

  She looked panicked. “When?”

  “Soon,” he said.

  “How soon?”

  “Almost five years exactly.”

  “You’ve got to stop it!” Her voice was definite and she made it sound simple.

  He stood. “There’s no easy answer.”

  “Did you ever think that this is perhaps why you’re here? That this is why this has happened to you?”

  His shoes and pants were soaked through and his shirt was half damp. A cold afternoon breeze starting blowing in from the north. Jack was full on shaking from the cold. “Can we start heading back? I’m chilled to the bone.” He held out his hand for her.

  She grabbed his hand and stood in front of him not moving. “Jack, I’m serious. Maybe this is why you’re here.”

  “The whole time travel thing? I don’t know. I read a time travel book one time where all the time traveler had to do was go back and stop one assassination from happening. That seems pretty simple and straightforward compared to this.”

  Still not moving and staring him straight in the eye, she asked, “Will you consider this?”

  They walked toward the barn without talking. Jack led the way, walking fast because he was cold, not talking because he didn’t know what else to say. Frances was right behind him. They walked inside the horse barn and Jack was relieved to get out of the wind.

  He turned to Frances. “I’m not totally convinced that I haven’t lost my mind.”

  “Will you try, Mr. Riggs?”

  “Jack.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Will you try, Jack?”

  “Yes, for you I will try.”

  “Don’t do it for me. Do it for humanity.”

  “That sounds pretty grandiose.”

  “You’re right. You need to do it for yourself.”

  Jack felt as if she had cracked open his skull and was ciphering its contents. “I’ll try, but I’m sure I can’t do it alone.”

  “No one said you will have to do it alone. It’s curious why that would even enter your mind.” She looked slightly confused. “I’ll help you any way I can and my family is fairly well-connected.”

  “I don’t know where to begin.”

  “Perhaps this is your ‘journey’—why you were put here in this time.” She turned to walk away. “Daddy and I are leaving in a few hours; we’re going to New Orleans to do some buying and to pick up my Uncle Andrew. But we’re really taking this trip to discuss this problem, this civil war as you call it, and the direction we want to take the business. Uncle Andrew wants to merge with us. He has stores all over the North, in Chicago, Detroit, Philadelphia, and several in New York that Daddy already has shares in. I’m going to bring you up; I’m not really sure yet how—of course I’m not going to mention the time travel. He would never believe any of it. I’ll have to pick the right time to do it and decide what I’m going to say. Just hold tight for a while. Do you need anything?”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “Oh I don’t know, like food . . . or money? Do you have any money?”

  “I should be fine. Payday’s tomorrow.”

  “Get wha
tever you need from our store and just have them put it on my bill.”

  “Thanks, but I couldn’t do that.”

  “Don’t be petty, for heaven’s sake. Just do it. I’ll mention it to the manager on the way out of town. Where are you staying?”

  “I’m staying at Miss Nancy’s Boarding House.”

  “Has she tried taking you to bed yet? She sleeps with all the single male boarders.” She smiled.

  “She’s a feisty ole gal, for sure.”

  “Not really the clear answer I was looking for, but it’s your business. Walk me back to the house and wait a few days, and I’ll see what I can do. I’ll arrange a meeting for you with my dad and Uncle Andrew when we get back. There’s one little suggestion I’d like to offer.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d just be real careful who you share your story with.” She looked briefly away and looked deep in thought. “There are dangerous men around—I know—I was married to one of them, and the people he works for are even worse. ”

  “You’re the only person I’ve told.”

  “I’d keep it that way for now. Oh, and one other thing . . .”

  “What’s that?”

  “When you do make it to the store . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  She smiled and looked down at his neon green Nike running shoes. “Buy some different shoes.”

  CHAPTER 14

  March 1856

  What’s in Store?

  Jack got paid.

  After paying Miss Nancy for his board, he had three dollars available to spend. It was Saturday afternoon and there was no work to be done. He declined Miss Nancy’s offer to accompany her on a picnic, aware that the older woman’s interest in him was more than just friendly. Jack sat at the same bench in Market Square where the deputy had first found him and watched the comings and goings of the town.

  The Sanger Dry Goods Store was open and doing good business. Its broad, shaded porch was one of the town’s main gathering spots. A group of men sat whittling, chewing tobacco, and appeared to be doing a good job of doing nothing. Younger boys in front of the store played a game of jacks. The men would take a break to observe the people walking by, speaking and greeting some, staring and making comments to others, and downright ignoring some people altogether. A young woman and a small boy pulled up to the front of the store in a horse-drawn wagon.

  The men and boys stopped completely and stared as the woman and child climbed down from the long square-boxed wagon. The wooden seat was nearly six feet in the air and it was difficult for the two to maneuver their way down. The boy had an easier time than the woman, who wore a long dress and bonnet. The men on the porch talked openly as the woman hitched the lone horse to the crossrail.

  One look and Jack could see the woman’s type—when she entered a room, wives would stop and bristle. She was extra-curvaceous even if clothed in 1850s-era clothing. The men seemed on the verge of catcalling when the woman flashed them a look that made them swallow any words that might be coming out. She grabbed her son and proudly walked through the throng of gawkers into the store.

  Many of the people he saw shopping the street had a harder-edge style of dress than the people he recognized from town. Must be the only time some of these folks can get in to shop, he thought. These new people looked rougher, dirtier. They came on horses or in wagons and many walked. Most had what looked like every member of their family with them. The entire town had a state fair atmosphere to it, yet in two distinct ways with two very different groups of people.

  The visage of the men changed dramatically when Jack walked up the steps. There was hat tipping and head nodding. Jack assumed that most of what they did on the porch was gossip and, evidently, the word of his pirate fighting had spread.

  He had no idea what three dollars would buy, but he hoped that it would at least buy a change of clothes. Entering the dry goods store, Jack saw Pete Snider behind the counter.

  The store seemed bigger than it had the first time he’d been there two weeks ago. He actually saw an order to things now. It was divided in half, with groceries on one side and dry goods on the other. He noticed the variety of things that he’d missed on his first visit. Shelves filled with tobacco jars, kitchenwares, crockery, bolts of cloth, bottles of whiskey, ready-made clothing, canned goods, laundry soaps and scores of other items lined the walls.

  Jack saw large cakes of plug tobacco. "Cut to order,” said the hand-lettered cardboard sign. The mini-guillotine of the plug tobacco cutter sat next to a box of tiny tobacco brand tags that were stuck into the plugs when they were sold.

  There was the tangy smell of iron things like kegs of nails and hand tools, mixed with the smell of customers that had never yet heard of deodorant.

  Pete Snider was wiping the glass top of a display case filled with hair tonics, pomades, shaving soap and razors, talcum powders, camphor and large hunting knives. Jack looked up from the display right into Pete’s eyes.

  “Jack Riggs,” Pete said, his voice thick with condescension. “I’d say things are looking up for you.”

  “Thanks, Pete. As a matter of fact they are.”

  “Miss Frances said they’re taking you on full-time over at the estate and to put your bill on the company tab.”

  “That was nice of her, but I have cash. I can pay my own bill.”

  “Said you’d probably say that, too. Told me your money was no good here and not to let you do otherwise.” Pete looked down his long crooked nose. It almost touched his chin and it looked like it would when he eventually lost his teeth.

  “I’m sure she does that for all the new hires.”

  “Nope, can’t say that she does. Ain’t never done it for no one. Just what do you do for the Sangers anyways? Aren’t you still digging that ditch?”

  “For now. But I’m not really sure what they have in mind for me.”

  “Ain’t got no clerking in your background do you?”

  “Clerking? What do you mean, clerking?”

  Pete gestured around the store. “Clerking. You know, managing an emporium?”

  “Oh, you mean here?” Jack looked around as if he might be considering. “Listen, I’m not out for your job.”

  “Ah huh,” Pete said. “Then what is it? You got something going with Miss Frances?”

  “Why would you ask me something like that?”

  Pete seemed to relax a little. “Well, Miss Frances hasn’t spoken to me freely in six months or so. She might ask a question about inventory or something, but never a ‘How are you, Pete?’ or a question about the weather or something.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “That she hasn’t spoke to me . . .” He thought about this for a second. “I guess not really. Some people might take her as uppity or something, but I just postulate that she is operating on some different level, thinking about things that normal people don’t have time for.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh hell, I don’t know. Just bigger things . . . or something.”

  “Is that why she’s not married anymore?”

  Jack thought he saw a look of panic of the man’s face. “That ex-husband of hers is a mean son of a bitch—nasty, and a lawyer too. Works for some really dangerous people.” Pete clammed up and looked like he was having second thoughts about talking too much. “I don’t know you from nobody. You come in here acting drunk and stuff. So what if you’re supposedly some pirate fighter and suddenly getting treated like the newest member of the Sanger Family. Why should I trust you?”

  “We do share a room together and I get to hear you snoring all night.”

  The reasoning was too much for him. “Well, I . . .”

  “So where’s her husband?”

  “He’s a sec-sesson, sec-sessoner . . .”

  “Secessionist?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said. Wants the South to be its own country. Works for some kind of manufacturer. Hell, I don’t know. Why you asking so many questions for anyway?” />
  “Just want to know what I’m up against. Why did they split up?”

  “People do a lot of talking—“

  “Course, you wouldn’t—“

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. People say he cheated on her or something. I don’t know, it was before my time and I don’t ask any questions. And besides, I’m not one to talk about someone’s love life, but there are stories . . . I probably need to get back to work.”

  CHAPTER 15

  March 1856

  Footloose and Fiancée Free

  Jack turned his attention to shopping. The term “dry goods” encompassed just about everything. The store looked as crowded with merchandise as it could possibly get. On the food side, there were crates of pickles, barrels of meal and flour, sardines, crackers and cheese. The smells assaulted the senses. Much to Jack’s delight, sitting on the counter was a small barrel with a sign attached saying, ‘Cigars, five cents a handful’—it seemed like a minor extravagance.

  “Hey Mister, you sure are dressed funny.” Jack turned to see a small, impish boy of about six staring wide-eyed at him, the one who had ridden up in the wagon. The boy’s mother, who had been looking at a bolt of fabric, turned and looked in their direction.

  She had taken off her bonnet and her long brown hair fell over her shoulders. What Jack hadn’t seen from his seat on the park bench was how strikingly beautiful the woman was. Her attitude reminded him of Shalah, the student that had caused all the problems back in 2013. But unlike the girl, this woman radiated sexual energy the way only a full-grown woman could. She looked like she was rarely home cooking. As she sauntered over, Jack thought 1856 had just gotten a lot more interesting.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. He can be such a little pest sometimes,” the woman said.

  “That’s OK. He’s not bothering me, “ Jack said. He tussled the boy’s hair. Getting down on his haunches, eye-level with the boy, he said, “So what do you find so strange about the way that I’m dressed?”