“Sure, I give you my word.” I shook his hand as gently as I could, but still feared breaking his fingers with the slightest touch.
He settled back into his chair, seeming greatly relieved. “Good. Very good. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I said, then closed the front door behind me.
I was careful to hold the box of books away from me as I got into the car. I didn’t want to smash the small treasure I’d tucked into my pocket.
I placed the last box into the back seat, then pulled out the special book. I didn’t have anything, really, to protect it with, so I took a clean sweatshirt from my backpack and wrapped it around the book before zipping the bundle inside. I took the small locomotive model out of my jacket and tucked it into the front compartment of the bag, along with my cell phone.
I knew, of course, I should tell Sandy about this book, especially if it could be very rare or valuable. But I also knew Mr. Donahue was making a donation to the College to follow his father’s wishes; the items were his to do with as he pleased. If it pleased him for me to ask this Mr. Sanderson for information first, then I would do it.
Tomorrow my shift at the library would be short. I’d have time in the morning to stop by Winter Forest, which was not far from my apartment, and see if Mr. Sanderson was lucid enough to have a meaningful conversation.
CHAPTER TWO
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, I found myself standing in the entryway of the Winter Forest Retirement Home, trying to talk my way inside.
“Are you family?” the receptionist asked.
“No.”
“Then why are you asking to see Mr. Sanderson?” She eyed me from head to toe. “You’re not trying to sell anything, are you? Peddle religious magazines? Insurance?”
“No, not at all.” I took the book out and held it up. “A friend of his, Mr. Donahue, thought Mr. Sanderson might know where this book came from. I only need about five minutes of his time. That’s all.”
“Well…” she scanned me again before handing me the pen for the sign-in sheet. “He so seldom has visitors, he might enjoy it. But he tires quickly, so fifteen minutes maximum or I will come down there and fetch you myself.”
“Understood.”
Once past the bland reception area, I was pleased to find this place to be nicer than the average ‘old folks’ home. I should know, because my parents dragged me on enough tours of such institutions once they wanted to put Grandfather into one, something I couldn’t stand to see happen just because he needed a little looking after to stay in his own apartment.
That’s how I ended up moving in with him, after having an argument with my parents that cut off all communications with them for more than a year.
Until last month. Until the funeral.
I was filled with dread again as I imagined going back to the apartment tonight and finding it empty. It didn’t bother me so much that he’d died there; he went peacefully, in his favorite chair, just as he swore he would, listening to talk radio softly in the background. It was just so quiet now without him.
Don’t, Keigan, I thought, walking on. I was in this place for a reason, and now more than ever I just wanted to get it all over with.
I found the properly-numbered door and knocked softly. It was partially open, and I didn’t want to burst in and scare the poor man. Then I realized I may need to knock a little louder to be heard.
“Someone there?” A cracked, weathered voice finally asked from beyond.
“Yes, Mr. Sanderson? Hi. My name is Keigan Wainwright, and I work at the J. Howard Fox Community College library. If I could just have a moment of your time, I need to ask you about a book I was just given by James Donahue Junior.”
I heard a rushed shuffle, clunk, shuffle sound. “From Fox College, you say? Come in, boy, come in!” He tried to make it to the door to meet me, but as old and hunched over as the poor man was, he barely made it past the foot of his bed.
His room was clean, if not tidy. I noticed one unusual thing about it right away: schematics of trains and of the workings of a roundhouse papered the walls next to a small desk in the corner. I recognized the roundhouse right away because of my Grandfather’s love of all things related to trains. When I was small, he’d take me into his lap and show me pictures in books of anything related to railroads.
Mr. Sanderson’s voice brought me back to the moment.
“Open the shades, let in a little light, will you please?” Mr. Sanderson asked, and I complied. “Turn the ghastly overhead thing off. I hate having lamps on during the day.”
“Yes, sir. Me too.”
I remembered exchanges I’d had with my Grandfather in his final days, watching this man struggle to greet me, and my stomach ached. How could such a force of nature, even one weakened and eroded by the passage of time, just cease to exist?
At last a small, shriveled hand reached out and patted mine more than shook it. “Seymour Sanderson, at your service. What was it you said you do at the College?”
“I’m a page at the campus library, sir,” I replied.
“Oh, I see. And you spoke to Donahue’s kid?” His expression was thoughtful. It was clear though his body was failing, his mind was still processing quickly.
I stifled a smile at the thought of elderly Mr. Donahue being called a ‘kid’, but I supposed to this man, he would be. “Yes, sir. He is donating his father’s books to the College. Fourteen boxes in all. Most are going to the Wishing Cross research department to be identified and tagged, and then either sent to us at the library, displayed at the museum, or added to the permanent historical archives. Thing is, there is one book in particular—”
“Silver book. Onion-skin pages, individually typed. Bound by someone who had the money to have it done privately,” he answered before I could finish. He looked at me again, a flame igniting his wise, deep brown eyes. “You don’t have to tell me which book. I know it well. Described it to you, did he?”
I realized he was confused on the finer points. “He did more than describe it to me, sir. He gave it to me.”
I took the wrapped book from my backpack, set the sweatshirt on top of another pile of schematics on the desk, and uncovered it slowly.
The look on his face changed from curiosity to one of stark terror.
“No,” he gasped, taking an uneven step backwards. He almost tripped over his cane and I rushed to steady him. “No, that book isn’t supposed to be here. He promised me he was going to take it back. He promised me!”
“Is there a problem, Mr. Sanderson?” A nurse’s aide poked her head into the room. She gave me the evil eye, and I cringed. The last thing I had wanted, or expected to do, was upset the man.
“No, thank you, dear. Just a surprise visitor. I’m fine,” he assured her, after a long moment’s pause. “I’m fine.”
“Okay…well, if you need anything, you just buzz for me.” She looked at her watch, then back at me, and frowned. “Visits are limited to fifteen minutes, you know. You’ve got about ten left.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
I knew I had better figure out if I were just wasting my time, or worse, disturbing him for no good reason.
After she’d gone, Sanderson reached out and stopped short of touching the book’s cover. “You don’t understand, it’s not supposed to be on this side.”
“This side of what?”
“The wormhole.”
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Just hearing a man his age use a term like ‘wormhole’ seemed ridiculous, let alone the thought this mystery book could have anything at all to do with one.
“I’m sorry, I thought you said wormhole.”
“I did.” He turned and slumped down into the desk chair. It squeaked beneath him, as lightweight as he was. “You see all these schematics?”
I nodded.
“Well, I worked in the roundhouse at Wishing Cross Heritage Railroad for forty years. I was not there to work on the trains. Not really.” He sized me up, taking stock. H
e appeared to be having a hard time deciding whether he could trust me with what he was about to say.
“J. Howard, you raving lunatic, what did you do?” he mumbled, shaking his head. “What have you done?”
He sighed, his watery eyes looking up at me again. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, young man. I have no choice but to tell you. Truth is I was a scientist, and old J. Howard employed a lot of us for various things. I was officially supposed to be the engineering research scientist for the Park, but my real job was keeping an eye on the wormhole.”
“I’m confused,” I admitted, though I didn’t admit that I was also more than a bit skeptical as well. “A wormhole forms somewhere in the roundhouse at Wishing Cross Heritage Railroad and goes… where?”
“To the past. To the real Wishing Cross Station.” He picked up the book then and held it in his hands, lowering his eyes and closing them. “Dear God, this can’t be happening.”
“The real Wishing Cross?” My confusion deepened as my curiosity grew. “But sir, I thought that was a fictional name, meant to represent an amalgam of the kinds of stations around when J. Howard Fox was a young man. So people could come to the Park and learn about them.”
“Exactly what you were supposed to believe, and please, call me Seymour,” he replied, before abruptly setting the book down. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time to explain, they’re going to throw you out of here soon enough. Run the place like a police state, I tell you.” He reached into the small desk drawer and pulled out an ornate key. “You’ve got to take this, and you’ve got to go to the roundhouse. Tonight. When no one is there. You’ve got to hope the book will work the way I think it will to open the unstable end of the wormhole that exists there. If it doesn’t, you won’t be able to use it to take the book back in time.”
“Take the book back in time? To the real Wishing Cross? Through a wormhole?” Now I was certain this old man had completely lost his mind. There couldn’t be a wormhole below the roundhouse in a historical theme park… could there?
“I have to talk as fast as I can, and I don’t have time to repeat anything,” Seymour warned, tugging on my sleeve. He gestured toward my bag. “You got a notebook in there?”
I pulled a notebook and pen out of my backpack and waited.
“Write fast, and when you’re done memorizing this later, before you attempt to do anything with the book, take the notes I am about to dictate to you and burn them.”
As he added a final warning, I stared at him in disbelief at what I was hearing.
“Whatever you do, whatever happens, don’t miss the train coming back. Don’t think you can stay in Wishing Cross permanently once you get there,” he rasped, taking hold of my arm.
I nodded and smiled at the old man. I couldn’t think of a reason why I’d ever want to stay.
CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS STILL EARLY in the day when I left Seymour Sanderson, his hands wringing as he begged me to promise I’d return the book safely home.
The consequences of not doing so, of keeping the book here, seemed impossible to fathom as he described them. So I tucked them away in my mind for now. I needed more information, but it was clear I was only going to get so much from the notes he’d dictated and the quickly scribbled map of sorts he had drawn into my notebook with thin and shaking fingers.
I needed time to think. I needed to sort through the information he’d thrown at me so quickly I’d had no time to absorb it.
I needed more coffee.
I was going to have to call in sick.
Making that call wouldn’t be difficult; I sounded stuffy as hell after my foray into Donahue’s attic the day before. My allergies and asthma were still killing me. I sat in my parked car and swallowed a couple more antihistamine pills with the cold remains of the coffee I’d picked up earlier. I grimaced as the bitter pills mixed with the stale brew, but at least I got them down. I drew another puff from my inhaler. It seemed to slow the spasms of my lungs enough that I could get some air again.
I took my phone out of my bag, antiquated though it was— its only abilities were to make phone calls and take horrible pictures. I hit speed dial number three.
“Sandy Reynolds,” said the voice on the other end.
“Sandy, it’s Keigan.” The phones at the library were too old to have caller ID, so I didn’t expect her to know. “I’m sick as a dog, I need to call off today.”
“Attic got the better of you, didn’t it? I swear, you sound like you’re wheezing.”
I listened to my own breaths and realized I was. I pulled my inhaler out of my pocket again and began to shake it. “I am. I have got to rest today, and sort through some stuff, too.” I let the last bit hang there, and she made the assumption I expected.
“I know you must have things to tie up from your Grandfather’s estate. Has to be hard to do on weekends when nothing is open and no one answers the phone at the insurance companies. We’ll manage without you today. Tomorrow, though, is another story. So don’t overdo. Get better, hear? Don’t go thinking you can show up in the morning, flash me those green eyes and dimples, and expect to go home early.”
“Yes ma’am,” I replied. “Thanks.”
I clicked the phone off and flipped it shut. Then I took one more blast from my inhaler.
Was it possible Seymour Sanderson, this self-described scientist, was more than just senile and delusional? Did the book hold the key to some sort of doorway to another world, one he swore I would have to see to believe?
One he insisted I had to visit if I was going to stop potentially disastrous things from happening.
I didn’t know what to think, really, but I knew where my first stop would be. I’d head home, throw a few more things in my backpack. Then I would raid the change jar Grandfather kept behind the front door, I would beg his forgiveness, and I would empty the contents into the coin machine at the local supermarket. There should be more than enough cash in there to get me where I knew I needed to go next: Wishing Cross Heritage Railroad, inside the Historical Park. I didn’t want to wait until nightfall to do a little looking around. And this way, whether or not the old man’s key worked, I’d be where he wanted me to be when darkness came.
***
Charged up on the double cappuccino I treated myself to between the apartment and the Park, my mind raced as it rarely had before. I had read through the notes Mr. Sanderson had given me three times, but then I did as he asked and reluctantly burned them, with one of the last of the matches Grandfather had used to light his pipe in the evening.
My heart ached, just a little, as I remembered I’d never see him do that again, even if the smoke did wreak havoc on my asthma. I tucked the matchbox into my backpack too, just because.
I paid the entry fee to the Park for the day and added a ticket to ride the Heritage Railroad that encircled it. I could get into the roundhouse for free by walking to it, but I figured riding the train might help me process some of this. The book itself stayed next to me, now wrapped in a pillowcase inside my backpack.
The entrance to the Park was a beautiful sight, even though the plant life was sparse this time of year. Holiday trimmings decorated rows of trees and covered awnings, trying to draw attention away from the lack of colors and foliage. In spring it would be in full bloom, a lush, garden-like atmosphere leading through the gates and turnstiles.
At the height of tourist season the place would be packed, but as cold as it was today, people were few and far between. Several school busses parked in the visitors’ lot told me that there were field trips taking place on the grounds, though, so I wouldn’t exactly have run of the place as I’d hoped.
I approached the first stop marked on the guide map and waited. Sheep grazed in a meadow on a small working farm on the other side of the platform, fenced off and completely unfazed by the sound of the train in the distance as it rumbled nearer.
I knew I’d been on this train on my high school field trip, but I couldn’t remember any
details about the ride. I knew I’d probably been too busy trying to avoid Karen, who had broken my heart just days before by changing her mind about going to homecoming with me.
I remembered that my best friend Lila and I sat on that train with our arms folded… Lila keeping an eye out for Karen and her friends so she could protect me from them, and me just keeping my eyes on the horizon.
The whistle pierced the air again now, and I caught first sight of the engine.
Unlike that field trip, this time everything about the locomotive struck me. It was an incredibly beautiful beast, and the smell of burning coal billowing from her stack as she approached was unlike any other aroma I had ever noticed. It was a heady smell, something I wished I could inhale deeper and deeper into my lungs, certain if I could get it in there far enough, it would actually intoxicate me. I was surprised; unlike other kinds of smoke, it didn’t seem to bother my lungs right away.
Once allowed to board, I jumped into the first row of the open passenger cars towed around the park by the authentic 1880s steam engine, which, according to the tour guide, had been imported for J. Howard Fox himself to use. It was called, she said, the Aurelia Belle.
It was not named for his wife, the guide noted over the faint PA system as I watched a man in the cab shovel coal from the so-called tender into the firebox.
Mr. Fox never did reveal who it was exactly the locomotive had been named for.
I thought about the small model train Mr. Donahue had given me. It had been marked in faded gold paint, with the initials A.B. on one side. I didn’t dare take it out of my backpack now, for fear I’d drop it like the clumsy ox I tend to be when my hands shake, a side-effect from the medicine in my inhaler.
“All aboard!” echoed in my ears, and then the train stirred to life and chugged into slow, lurching motion.
We picked up speed, and I stared into the cab from behind a protective wall of plastic. I must have stared too long, because both gentlemen within waved at me and glared. One of them gave me an exaggerated grin and the thumbs up sign, and so I moved my gaze from them to the Park itself as the train circled around it.
Wishing Cross Station Page 2