by Alex Myers
He had planned the event based on memories of the Christmases he’d spent as a child with his family and friends. He planned to fill Christmas Eve with every Christmas story he could remember. After all, he figured he was the only person on earth that knew the stories of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, and Frosty the Snowman. Clarissa mentioned she played the piano and so Jack purchased an upright and had it delivered earlier in the week in time for the carols that night. He had every kind of liquor and wine he could find and was prepared for a grand evening.
As crazy as it seemed, he felt lucky. They had stitched up his arm from where the spikes had punctured it and he was going to be fine. Bob Cooper had made off with $15,000 and replacing that would hurt a little, but thanks to Frances, he was able to get his workers their pay and Christmas bonuses. She’d walked into her father’s bank earlier that day and come out with the money. She wouldn’t tell him where the money had come from—if it was hers or if she’d borrowed it from her father—but she did tell him to take his time getting it back.
He’d made some wonderful friends, and for the first time in his life, he felt like he was making a difference. Not only was he improving his own life and fortune, but those of everyone around him, possibly even society as a whole. Jack felt respected, but he had felt that before in his life. Now it was something more than that—admiration. He felt more complete and in tune with his surroundings here in the mid-nineteenth century than he had in the twenty-first. He really liked the people in his life and found immense satisfaction in sharing with them, not only his knowledge and money, but also his heart.
Jack was just hanging the last of the stockings on the huge mantel when there was a knock on the door.
He was surprised. It was Frances and she was over an hour early. “I was going to take our new car to pick you up," Jack said.
"That obnoxious horseless carriage? Is it still as loud as it was?" Frances asked.
"Yes, but we've just about got the other kinks worked out.
"My horse was fine. Besides I wanted to get here a little early and see if I could help."
"Do you know how to cook?" Jack asked.
"No, but someone could tell me what to do," Frances said cheerfully.
There was an incredible mixture of aromas in the house, from the pine smell of the tree and boughs, to breads and meats, to stuffing and desserts and even the scented candle in each and every window.
Jack took her coat and led her into the kitchen.
Clarissa Goodyear stood in a white blouse and green apron stirring the pot of Christmas soup. “Frances.”
“Mrs. Goodyear, this, this . . .” Frances’s eyes were bright as she took in all the sights and smells of the kitchen full of food, “This is like heaven.” She was almost breathless. Frances turned to Jack. “I want to learn how to do this.” She turned to Clarissa. “Can you teach me to cook like this?”
“There are books with recipes aplenty, but book learning is only going to take you so far.”
“That’s right,” Jack said. “To be truly great, you’ll have to get in touch with your inner chef.” Jack rolled his eyes back in his head and hummed.
Frances looked to Clarissa for verification, but she only shrugged.
“All the great cooks I knew had a Zen-like attitude toward their creations.”
“Like a Buddhist?” Frances asked.
“Like an artist,” Jack said. “Like Clarissa.”
“I could teach you some of the basics,” Clarissa said. “The rest you can get on your own. It looks like you have a willing victim on which to test your wares.”
“I’ll eat whatever you make, no matter how bad it is,” Jack said.
“Who said anything about it being bad?” Frances gave Jack a pinch.
The door chimed.
Jack turned to go but first turned back to Frances. “Are you cool?”
She shrugged, clearly not knowing his meaning.
“Are you alright? Are you going to be OK in here?” Jack asked.
“I’m going to conquer this cooking thing, you just watch me. I’m fine, I’m exactly where I want to be.”
Opening the door, he saw that it was the wild-haired, wild-eyed Samuel Clemens, looking like a Russian Cossack dressed for the Siberian winter.
“Sam, come on in and get out of the cold.”
Stomping the snow off his boots, Sam turned to survey the yard. “What a perfectly delightful snowfall.”
"Believe it or not, snowfall here is a real rarity in my time. I guess it's pretty commonplace these days." Jack stepped out on the porch. “Not as cold as it looks. Speaking of delightful . . . check out that sunset over the water.”
“What do you have up your sleeve tonight, Mr. Riggs?”
“Just a little Christmas celebration—twenty-first century style—or as close as I can get it.”
“Is Christmas a big holiday?”
“The biggest. Near the end of October every store brings out its Christmas merchandise, and by the time the big day rolls around, you’re about sick of the joyous Nöel.”
“Sounds very commercialized, like it’s become something other than celebrating the birth of Christ. To me the Christmas holidays have this high value in that they remind Forgetters of the Forgotten and repair damaged relationships,” Sam said.
“That has very little to do with it in my time. Jews and Muslims even celebrate Christmas. Santa Claus has replaced Jesus as the main focus of December twenty-fifth. After all, Jesus only brings salvation, while Santa brings presents.”
Jack gave him a slap on the back, truly happy to be friends with the man, whether he was going to be the great Mark Twain or not. “How are you liking your new place? I heard you have a few house guests.”
“Next to a wife, whom I would idolize, give me a cat—an old cat with kittens preferably.”
“I never had any idea you were so fond of felines. How many do you have?”
“Currently six, but of course, that number could grow. Of all God’s creatures, there is only one that cannot be made the slave of the lash. If man could be crossed with the cat, it would improve man, but would deteriorate the cat. A home without a cat—and a well-fed cat—may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how could one prove it?”
They heard the rest of the guests. Robbie’s dog Buddy, no longer a puppy, was barking and catching snowballs. Charles Goodyear and his three children were frolicking in the Christmas snow; Robbie even had them join in the snowball fight. Kaz was watching and laughing as they all headed toward the big house.
“I like very much this snow,” Kaz said, stepping up to the porch.
“I like snow, it tastes good,” said Robbie "Is Santa Claus coming now? Mom said we were too poor for him to come last year.”
“He’ll be coming this year for sure, not just yet, though. I’ll tell all you kids some Christmas stories tonight. Why don’t we go inside where it’s warm? We have lots of good stuff to eat and it’s about ready to be put on the table.”
“We heard someone was having a party,” Charles said.
Jack saw that Goodyear had put on a few pounds on his thin frame and looked healthy as a horse. Jack remembered enough about Goodyear to know that, left to his own devices, he would have died a sick broken man that winter. Seeing him now happy and healthy made his heart warm.
“That we are. Everyone come on in and take your coats off. Let’s get this party started!”
“And shut that door,” Sam said to Robbie, “not that it lets in the cold, but that it’s letting out the coziness.” He grabbed the boy in a giant bear hug
Everyone went inside as Jack waited for Kaz to step up on the porch. “How’s the little family working out?”
Kaz beamed and said, “Everything is dandy. Robbie has started in the school.”
“He looks like he's wearing a brand-new outfit.”
“I took him to Sanger Store yesterday and seems like I buy him one of everything. Hats, gloves, pants, shoes
—remember, when he came to me, the boy had no clothes except for what he was wearing.”
“No word from Mattie?” Jack asked.
“No. I thought she would make contact for Christmas, if just to say she is OK.”
Jack shook his head. “I can’t believe that. Nothing?”
"Nothing. It's like she is dead."
“I’m sure she has her reasons,” Jack said, patting Kaz on the shoulder. He didn’t think much of Mattie Turner, but he didn’t want to upset his friend. He didn’t mention that they thought they’d seen her with Bob Cooper the day of the theft. “Don’t let it get you down, buddy.”
“Thank you, Jack. Serdecznie dzie, kuje. Thank you from the heart.”
After dinner, retiring to the large living room, Samuel went to his coat and from an inner pocket produced four cigars. He handed one each to Jack, Charles, and Kaz. He pulled out a box of safety matches and after several attempts lit everyone’s cigar.
“I can make you a lighter, “ Jack said to Sam. ”Either that, or I’ll make you some matches that light a lot easier than those.”
Taking a big puff, Sam said, “I bet you will. And that’d be nice.” He took a big draw. “I’ve made it a rule to never smoke more than one cigar at a time. I have no other restriction in regard to smoking.”
“This is very nice cigar,” Kaz said and Charles and Jack agreed.
“I know a bad cigar better than anyone else; I judge by the price only. If it costs above five cents I know it to be either foreign or half foreign, and unsmokable. You all will be happy to know these were four for ten cents.”
Jack poured each of them a snifter of brandy.
“It’s my motto,” Sam said, “never to refuse to do a kindness unless the act would work great injury to yourself, and never refuse to take a drink—under any circumstances.”
It was everything Jack could do to keep the Goodyear children and Robbie from tearing into the presents under the tree. He finally staved them off by saying that the presents were for the morning, but with much showmanship, gave in, and let them open one apiece.
Admittedly, Jack had gone overboard on everyone, buying a ton of gifts. Through his connections at the Sanger Company, he’d purchased multiple sets of clothes direct from the manufacturers, even for the adults. He knew that he was buying too much, but these people were his family now and, until recently, and with the exception of Frances, they all had been quite poor.
For Samuel he started with a carton of Cuban cigars and a fine single-malt Scotch. Workers at the complex, following Jack’s direction, had made a crude, but workable typewriter that Jack had wrapped for his friend. But the thing Jack was most proud of was the ballpoint pen he had designed himself.
For Charles Goodyear, Jack’s men had just perfected a binocular microscope; the hand-polished lenses were twice as powerful as on any microscope available. With a little searching Jack had been able to obtain a one-of-a-kind German-designed drafting set for Kaz. Along with the drafting set, Jack had purchased a matching walnut drafting table and custom chair that he had hidden in his spare bedroom.
For the Goodyear children and Robbie, Jack had purchased a large variety of store-bought toys and a few he fashioned himself with the help of his staff. They crafted wooden Frisbees, boomerangs, and Yo-Yos, as well as a crude metal slinky.
Jack was single-mindedly focused on getting Frances an engagement ring. He had casually mentioned it to Clarissa Goodyear and she said it was not appropriate.
"But I love her," Jack said.
"Does she love you?"
"I think so."
"Not a good answer." Clarissa said. "If you propose, will she say yes?"
"I hope so."
"That's an even worse answer. Do you really want to embarrass her and yourself if her answer is no? Play it safe. Buy her a washing machine. What woman wouldn't love that?"
Jack gave Clarissa Goodyear a new electric washing machine hot off the design table and she indeed seemed ecstatic.
Jack got Frances a pair of custom earrings and, when she slowly opened the box, you could see she was visibly relieved when it wasn't something else. Clarissa Goodyear gave Jack an approving wink from across the room.
Everyone, including Jack, had a stocking with his or her name on it that had been hung on Jack’s oversized mantle.
Jack felt a lump in his throat when each person who arrived on Christmas morning presented him with a gift they had either made or purchased. There was much caroling, many firecrackers, continuous eating, and even a little dancing.
Like Jack, everyone seemed to take the measure of where they were this Christmas versus last. The Goodyears were happy and had food on the table and Charles seemed finally fulfilled in his work. Kaz had Robbie, but he also had Jack and Murphy, and his extended family at the compound. Murphy had gone from being a recluse to the patriarch of the bunch. And even Frances seemed more satisfied with her life.
Jack was happy too—real happy. Now if he could just take care of the upcoming war…. But he decided that he was not going to worry about it on Christmas.
CHAPTER 44
January 1857
Things are Moving Fast
Jack was working eighteen, nineteen, sometimes twenty hours a day; life was too exciting to sleep and time too precious to waste. It was Jack’s ever-increasing fame as an inventor and his strong positive approach to the future that heads of industry and the country as a whole needed, and they paid him handsomely for it. After spending nearly $90,000 on the compound on Norfolk and nearly $55,000 on oil leases and land, Jack still had over $40,000 in the bank. Figuring that a nickel in 1856 was worth about nine dollars in 2012 money, in less than a year, he had accumulated a net worth virtually in the millions. Along with the money came power and influence and Jack was finding doors opening for him that would have been barred shut in his modern world.
The compound on Broad Creek was moving ahead at the speed of light. The entire complex, including the residences, was now being lit by electricity from the tidal turbine generator, and the coal plant was operational on one of the soon-to-be-six boilers. In Jack’s house, the electric stove and oven worked perfectly—and the refrigeration unit was in place.
Enthusiasm was running higher than with any other collection of people Jack had ever known. It was an exciting time to be alive. With things moving so fast, there seemed to be no time for jealousy or the guarding of ideas. Sixty-three patents from thirty different people had already been submitted to the patent office and more would be ready any day. Jack retained the services of nearly a fourth of the lawyers at one of New York’s most prestigious law firms. Their offices were on Park Row, across Printing House Square from the American and Foreign Patent Offices located in the newly-created New York Times Building. The attorneys were experts in patent law with almost incestuous ties to the patent office in Washington. They prepared and submitted the inventions in a production-line fashion. It almost looked like Jack was playing dirty, but everything was above reproach.
The lawyers jumped on patent pirates like hungry dogs. The only company that blatantly ignored Jack and his company’s patent rights was the SAC, the Southerners Against Compromise. Jack knew of at least fifteen patent violations issuing from the SAC manufacturing plant in Williamsburg. Jack and his lawyers were trying to get an injunction, but such things moved slow.
Jack was the director and heart of the organization, but with his second-in- command, Elisha Root, his work superintendent William Stuttgart and the workers themselves, they were a force that moved forward with thought and dedication.
He truly loved what he was doing. He also had seventeen patents of his own that were bringing in enough money to more than cover his expenditures. The only worry that had, the only thing that could put a damper on this explosive growth, was the impending Civil War.
CHAPTER 45
January 1857
Hitch Your Wagon to a Star
Ralph Waldo Emerson
The Civil War weighed
heavy on Jack’s mind. Conrad Poppenhusen invited him to the first War Consortium meeting; after that, he was part of the monthly meeting of a think tank of the New York Illuminati. The meetings were held in the Great Hall of New York University on Washington Square beneath the neo-Gothic towers. There were several professors from Columbia and New York Universities, an occasional politician, heads of industry, a select few members of the press, and every now and then, a traveling thinker or famous writer. They met, argued, and postulated ways of defusing the tension between the North and the South.
Jack was coming to New York once a month anyway, so he simply scheduled his inventor's interviews around their meetings. Afterwards, Jack would hang back and join in the discussions with the livelier groups of debaters. It was after a meeting attended by an immortal icon of the nineteenth century, a virtual superstar, that Jack made a hasty decision. The man wasn’t a featured speaker; in fact, he barely uttered a word. But his very attendance at the gathering lent credibility and the high air of esteem. Jack decided to tell him his story; he drew near and introduced himself.
Ralph Waldo Emerson, the undisputed, intellectual center of the American Renaissance, had sharp striking features and a prominent and noble brow. His hair was carelessly thrown back, but fell in just the right way. He had penetrating blue eyes that matched his smile in the most friendly of ways.
“I have heard of you,” the man said. Jack was nearly seven inches taller, but the power of the man’s voice was amazing. The sound fell on the ear in the most pleasant of ways, but had an almost inaudible, deep sub-bass to it. “I have wondered about the fount from which your inspiration springs.”