by Greg Ahlgren
“And Ralph?” deVere asked.
Ginter shrugged. “I don’t know. I only heard about it at Lorrie’s house. When was the last time you saw him at the coffee shop?”
DeVere squinted his eyes, and then moved away from the window. He leaned back against the writing desk.
“It was the evening I found the canister,” he said quietly. “That was on June 22. I stopped off on the way to the bridge to kill some time. There was a guy who said that Ralph had Sox tickets. I haven’t seen him since.”
“Were you good friends?” Amanda asked softly.
Paul shook his head. “I’d stop in sometimes and have a coffee. We’d chitchat, you know, politics, whatever. I certainly never told him I was working on something. I didn’t know he was even picked up until after Lewis’ meeting in Newton.”
“Did you know he was active?” Ginter asked.
“I knew how he thought but that’s not something you ask about,” Paul answered.
“So why would they disappear?” Amanda asked. “Where would they go?”
“Not back here,” Paul answered. “Heck, we didn’t even know where and when we were coming to until the last minute.” Paul deVere threw up his hands. “The whole thing is nuts. If anyone had come back and changed history we’d know it. It would have become our history.”
“Could they have done it while we were in the wormhole itself?”
Startled, Paul deVere turned to look at the speaker. Pamela Rhodes gazed stoically back at him.
“Pardon?” deVere asked.
“The wormhole,” she repeated. “You said that if they had changed history we would have already lived a different history and we’d know that history. But what if they changed history while we were in the wormhole? Then we wouldn’t know it. How long were we in the wormhole?”
Ginter and deVere exchanged glances.
“Pamela? Is that your name?” deVere asked.
The woman nodded.
“What do you do for work? I mean in Portland, your day job?”
“Insurance,” she answered simply. “I’m an adjustor for State Farm.”
DeVere nodded. “Well, there’s no answer to your question. One could argue that we were in the wormhole a negative sixty-three years but that really makes no sense since time has no meaning in a wormhole, which just connects two times and places. Lewis?”
Ginter nodded. “I think that is the only accurate answer to the question.”
Amanda jumped in. “But what if after we left in 2026 someone else left and went to an earlier time, say 1960? Then history could have been changed before we arrived back here.”
Ginter scoffed and shook his head forcefully. “If someone changed history then it changed for everyone, including us, so we would have known the revised history before we left.”
“Huh?” Pamela asked.
“But what if we failed?” Amanda persisted, ignoring Pamela. “Could someone have left after us and arrived before us to try to make sure we succeeded?”
“Maybe that’s what Eckleburg was doing,” Pamela said.
“And is that why these helpers sent the cops after us?” Ginter asked sarcastically.
“Look,” Pamela continued. “This conversation is going nowhere. We can’t figure out from here what anyone else was up to in 2026. And we can’t go back until December. So, what difference does it make? We’re going to have to figure out what we can do now.”
“She’s right,” Ginter added. “All we can do is what we can do. Nothing more.”
He turned to Paul. “Eckleburg said he was suspicious that you might be a squisher. But if he was just scamming the others maybe he knew you really could be trusted.”
“Lewis,” Paul began, “I never met Eckleburg. I don’t know why he’d suspect me.”
“Maybe not personally,” Ginter continued. “Maybe it was not you Eckleburg was suspicious of but someone around you.” He kept his eyes on Paul.
“Like you?” Pamela asked, turning toward Ginter. “You think Eckleburg suspected you?”
Ginter shook his head forcefully. “Why would he ask me to a meeting to tell me he was suspicious if I were the suspect?”
“Why does it matter?” Amanda asked. “We’re here, he’s not, and like Pamela said, what we’ve got to do is just try something.”
“Such as?” Ginter asked. “How can we convince Kennedy to invade Cuba now?”
“What?” Amanda asked. “Lewis, there’s no way. The time to have invaded Cuba was last year when the United States was threatened with weapons of mass destruction 90 miles away. I know you think it’s my fault we’re a year too late but I’m sorry. We’ve lost that chance. Kennedy will never invade Cuba now. He stared down Khrushchev and Khrushchev blinked–all without a war. The missiles are gone. Kennedy won-there’s no need for a war now.”
“He has to,” Ginter said coldly. “Don’t tell me it’s too late. Cuba will start exporting revolution before the end of this decade. Ché Guevara will march through Bolivia and up through Central America and they’ll have this country by the throat. Those chemical weapons and that dirty bomb will come from right over the border.”
Amanda shook her head. “I understand all that, but Kennedy will never invade now. John Kennedy was a hero in World War II. He’s seen its horrors. He’s not going to start a war when he’s already won a stand-off.”
Amanda shifted to face Ginter squarely. “But we still may be able to convince him to stay in Vietnam. That may be our best chance now.”
“When is that decision going to be made?” Ginter asked.
Amanda pulled out her itinerary papers and flipped through them. “Ah, here we are. Kennedy will meet with his advisors in a special Sunday meeting at the end of November, 1963.” She grabbed the calendar from the desk.
“November 24,” she said. “Within our window since we are here until what, December 8th?”
“Where’s the meeting?” Ginter asked.
“In D.C.,” Amanda answered. “There has to be some way of postponing or canceling that meeting. There has to be somewhere in here we can impress upon him the danger of a pullout.”
Ginter took the sheaf from her. “Right, why don’t we just call the White House and arrange lunch?” he asked sarcastically. “How do you think we’re going to convince the President?”
Lewis threw the sheaf of papers onto the table. “Invading Cuba means we stop Guevara. But there’s more than one way to do that. Today is August 5th, 1963. I’m not going to spend the next month waiting for the editor of The Times to return calls to do lunch.”
“Hey,” deVere said, breaking the tension. “Speaking of lunch. I haven’t eaten in a negative 63 years and I’m hungry.”
Paul checked his watch. “I set it by the clock in the lobby. It’s 11:06. Perfect time for an early lunch. There’s a restaurant on the ground floor. And I want to try that crank machine. Let’s eat and try to come up with a new plan.”
“I guess we could tackle this better on a full stomach,” Amanda said.
“Wonder if they’ve invented the salad yet,” Paul said, grabbing his key from the writing desk.
“Man, have you noticed how much everyone stares at us?” Lewis asked over his open menu. “I guess our clothes are kind of weird.”
“That and you’re kind of black,” Paul said. “I don’t see a lot of other black people around here.”
“And I’m better looking than you three,” Lewis said as Paul and Amanda rolled their eyes. “The ladies are the ones staring, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Oh, rats. Forgot my money,” Amanda said, pushing her chair out. “I’ll pop back up, be down in a sec.”
“No sweat, I can handle it,” Lewis said.
“Oh no, my treat, I insist,” Amanda said. She hurried away while Paul and Lewis stared after her.
“What’s that all about?” Lewis asked Paul.
Paul shrugged. “Women. You know. She isn’t really going to treat. Just an excuse. Bad time of the month,” he
muttered.
Ginter raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know that, Mr. Loyally Married Man? Is there something in your personal life you’re not telling us?”
DeVere cleared his throat. “No, she told me back at the lab just before we went through the wormhole. She had to run to grab her purse.”
DeVere turned to Pamela. “Speaking of marriage, what about you? Am I the only married one in this group?”
Pamela blushed. “I guess so.”
“Never been married?” Ginter prodded.
She shook her head.
“I know I was wrong about Pomeroy but is there another boyfriend up there in Portland?” Ginter asked.
“There was,” Pamela answered slowly. “But not in Portland.”
She blushed again, and hesitated. She started to speak but stopped when the waiter arrived to refill the water glasses.
When he moved away Pamela said, “I was engaged to a resister from Phoenix I met in Portland. Some friends of mine downtown introduced us. But he was killed in a raid on the Chase Manhattan Bank in New York three years ago. Something went wrong and the local cops showed up too soon and he got shot in the ankle and couldn’t make the car. The others left him and he got killed in a shootout.”
The table grew quiet. DeVere could hear the water glasses clinking from the other side of the room.
“I’m sorry,” deVere croaked. “This can be so tough for all of us. We’ve all made sacrifices.”
His thoughts turned to Grace and he wondered if he were successful in accomplishing his goals what would happen to her. Would she ever be born? Would he still adopt her?
Pamela shrugged. “He was a lawyer who practiced environmental law. He settled a case for a huge amount in Phoenix. One of the biggest ever. He played football and was pretty rugged. Played professionally for a bit. When he was killed, my mother took it really hard.”
Maybe, just maybe, David’s theory of life forces would prove out, deVere thought. Maybe Grace was destined to be born regardless of what happened back here.
“I remember the Chase raid,” Ginter said. “It would have netted a ton of dough. I didn’t realize that you had a connection to one of the participants. How old was he?”
Pamela inserted another roll in her mouth.
“Your age?” Ginter asked helpfully.
She nodded through a full mouth.
“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked, reappearing at deVere’s shoulder.
“We’re still waiting for one.”
“I’m here,” Amanda said, breathlessly slipping back into her seat. She replaced her pocketbook on the floor. “Sorry about that.”
Ginter closed his menu. “I’ll start. Cheeseburger, no onions, ketchup.”
“Cheese steak. Also no onions,” Amanda said.
“No one likes onions?” Paul teased. “Well, they do have a salad, and I’ll have one. Russian dressing.” He tossed his menu down.
“You O.K.?” Paul asked Pamela kindly.
She nodded solemnly, brushing at her eye. “I guess I’ll have a salad too.”
“Born in 1908?”
Paul deVere stared at the New York State paper driver’s license that bore his name–and a birth date of October 2, 1908. He leaned back in his chair in Room 237 of the Carpenter Hotel–Lewis’ room.
“Why’d you ever make me born in 1908?”
Lewis Ginter didn’t look up from the Manchester Union Leader he had bought at Pete’s Variety Store and which now lay spread across the room’s only bed.
“Do the math,” he said simply. “We were supposed to come back in 1962, remember? You’re 53 years old. For that to work you would have had to have been born in 1908.”
DeVere leaned back and closed his eyes. “But Lewis,” he began, “we’re in much better shape than these people. Look at them. Fifty-three isn’t that old in 2026 but back here…” His voice trailed off. “Couldn’t you have made me 43?”
Ginter checked his watch. “How long have they been gone?”
“Hey, shopping, you know how it is. It must be a culture shock. You sure it was O.K. to let them go by themselves?”
“Less risky,” Ginter answered. He pointed at the open page before him.
“They have it right here on pages four and five. The place is called Leavitt’s. Women’s clothes, and just a couple of blocks away. When they get back we’ll go to that Easler’s place.”
DeVere sighed and sat up. “What do you find so interesting in that damn paper?”
Ginter flipped to another page. “Just trying to get the lay of the land.”
He reached under the paper and pulled out the sheaf of papers Amanda had brought with her. He tossed them on the nightstand.
“Other than one copy of Kennedy’s itinerary none of our records made it back,” Ginter said. “And we can’t rely on Amanda’s recollection for the day to day stuff. We’re going to live this in real time.”
“And what is the lay of the land?” deVere asked, indicating the newspaper.
“Well,” Ginter said, turning another page. “Sox lost again. Seven to five to the Washington Senators. Wilbur Wood got beat.”
“That’s it? Sox news?”
“No, that’s not it. Plenty of good movies playing. Mutiny on the Bounty, The Great Escape, and ‘Bye Bye Birdie. Hey, and speaking of Kennedy as a war hero, P.T. 109 opens Wednesday at The State Theater.”
“Great Escape?” deVere mused. “Does that have Jim Brown in it?”
Lewis Ginter shook his head. “You’re thinking of The Dirty Dozen. This one had Steve McQueen and no brothers. I’ve seen them both zillions of times.”
DeVere nodded. “Anything else?”
Ginter frowned. “Three headlines on the front page. Two on the struggle against Communism: the nuclear treaty with the Soviets and Britain and a skirmish at the DMZ in Korea. Conservatives are up in arms. Opinion pieces galore.”
DeVere waved his hand. “That paper was a right wing rag. You forget I grew up here.”
“I didn’t forget,” Gunter said quietly. “But there are wire stories about groups forming to oppose JFK. The Republicans have formed several groups to attack him. One is called the Critical Issues Council. Another is the Business Industry Policy Action Committee. Ike’s brother is heading up one of them.” He pointed down. “All in today’s paper.”
“Ike’s brother?”
“Former President Eisenhower’s brother, Milton. Two headlines out of three. Opposition groups forming. An article on the back page details the courage of some local who stood up to the Reds. Cartoons about the folly of trusting the Commies.”
“Sounds like good advice.”
Ginter folded the newspaper. “This is a divided nation. Very much so.”
The room grew quiet. DeVere turned to Ginter.
“Do you really believe someone else came back?” he asked.
“I think so. I wish I had paid more attention to Eckleburg in Newton. I was followed from that meeting but assumed it was just a standard tail. I can’t figure out Eckleburg’s concern, but whatever it was, I guess it wasn’t really about money. Damn!”
“So, what was it about?” deVere asked.
Ginter shook his head. “No scenario makes any sense. Is someone trying to help us or hurt us? I just don’t know.”
DeVere smiled. “And now we’ve missed our target by a year. Did that cause us to already fail?”
“Do you trust her?” Ginter asked suddenly.
“Huh? Geez, Lewis, we’ve been over this already.”
“Paul, I didn’t trust her before. Maybe this screw-up was not so accidental.”
“We’ve had this talk,” Paul protested.
“There’s something else,” Lewis said. “Something I didn’t know last week. The reason she came to Cambridge. I thought her showing up was a bit too coincidental.”
“Lewis, she has a kid. Her ex has custody. She wanted to be closer to spend more time with him.”
“I have friends,” Lewis s
aid. “All over the country. After our talk last Saturday I called down to North Carolina.”
“Yeah, so?” deVere asked warily.
“Amanda got divorced when she was teaching down there. I had my source pull her divorce file. Public record, you know. He overnighted me a copy. It came this morning.”