“See? How could I possibly have gotten that printed?”
He’d turned a bit pale. “Well. Maybe you went to a printers and had them print this out as a joke.”
“Briley. This is not a joke. This is real. How the heck am I goin' to convince you?”
I frantically began diving through my bag to see what wonders I’d brought from the next century. Ha! My wallet. Not only did it contain a valid and up-to-date New York driver’s license but in the coin section were quarters, dimes and a nickel engraved with dates as old as 1985 and as late as 2009. I dumped everything into his lap. He slowly made his way through the entire lot.
When he got to my license, he turned pale then tried to smile. “I can tell this is official. It’s not the best photograph I’ve ever seen.”
“Hmmm. Thank you so much. Savanna says it looks like I just got sent to a federal penitentiary charged with terminal bad make-up. I didn’t care. It’s my first Manhattan drivers license and I was just thrilled to prove I live here.”
Again, I showed him the other "Heartbreak Hotel" music with the copyright date on it.
“Don’t tell me I managed to get a printer to come up with that too. A picture of guys with earrings and mohawk hairdos? Electric guitars?”
He took the music, stared at it for minutes then sat heavily down on the foot of my bed. He glanced up at me, resting against the piano.
“I’m going to be sick.”
I stifled a laugh. “Been there! Done that! Imagine how I felt when I landed in an unfamiliar dressing room with two people I’d never met before givin' me the news I was in a time not my own and urgin' me to audition for a man who’s been dead for over sixty years?”
Briley looked pained. “He died? When?”
I hated saying it. “I’m not sure. Sometime in the 1930s. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
Briley held on to the sheet music like a drowning man to a raft. “Let’s suppose for a moment that I accept this insane theory of time travel. After all, if someone had told George Washington that there would be Ford automobiles lining the streets of New York in the early 20th Century, I’m sure he would have had his doubts. But, where does all this translate in terms of Denise and Nevin being in Memphis?”
I again explained about meeting Fiona Belle Winthorp.
“She was somehow able to send this back to me as a clue to their whereabouts. Why else would this show up in my room? I didn’t bring it here. And that cranberry stain. That’s her way of tellin' me to take the hint and run with it.”
“But how did this lady even get any information about all this?”
I took a breath before expounding on my next wacky theory. “Because her full name is Fiona Belle Donovan Winthorp and I’m sure she either is - or is related to - our own Mrs. Donovan who has so conveniently stepped out the rooming house today.”
“What does she have. . . ?”
I interrupted him before he could ask another question I couldn’t answer.
“Briley. I am tellin’ you everything I suspect, guess, feel intuitively, and all that jazz. The when, why, where, and how is beyond me. I’m also tellin’ you that I firmly believe that this music is a sign. From an angel, a time-traveler, or a witch. I don’t care. I just keep seein’ Nevin’s face. If I don’t follow these instincts, we’re going to lose him. And we have no other clues, not really. The police don’t know anything, and no one at the theatre knows anything, and no one at the Dupre's apartment knows anything. So whether you think I’m crazy, or fanciful, or lying to you for some bizarre purpose, let me say that I’m goin' to Memphis. With or without you.”
Briley poured a glass of water from the pitcher on my dresser, drank it down in one gulp, then turned back to face me. “I can’t honestly say I believe your story. It’s a bit too close to Jules Verne or H.G. Wells for me. But, you’re right about one thing. I have found out nothing, nothing, at all about where Denise and Nevin could have gone.”
He glared at me. “Do you have some sort of lame-brained theory as to why these women could be in your hometown?”
“No. Other than the ever-popular plot to kidnap for um, purposes of illegal pleasure. Maybe Officer O’Reilly really did hit that nail dead on about white slavery. I love Memphis, but I’ve read that in the early 1900s it was pretty wide open as to drinkin', drugs, gamblin’, and prostitution. And who’d imagine missin’ girls were being held in a Southern town that probably doesn’t have much importance in the grand scheme of Manhattan doin’s?”
He was listening. Really listening. Maybe I was starting to crack through the wall of disbelief. I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to buy the time travel story, but just maybe he’d agree to accompany me to my home state on faith alone.
“All right, Mel. I can persuade Flo not to dock our pay too much if we tell him we’re following up a lead concerning the vanishing of more than one Follies employee. I’ll give this theory of yours ten days, tops. And that’s all.”
I hugged him. He doubtless thought I was a few feathers short of a Follies' headdress but he was going to trust me. It was time to pack and catch the next train to Tennessee.
Chapter 16
We got off the train at the Central Station Depot in downtown Memphis and the full force of southern heat hit me. I turned to Briley. “What was I saying back in Manhattan? Was there a real live reason for us to come charging down here? Before air-conditioning exists?”
“Do not go on about that again. I do not want to hear about the wonders of the 21st Century. I do not want to hear about mysterious ways of sending messages to and fro. I do not want you to discuss anything more mysterious than why women endure plucking their eyebrows to change the shape. I’m so hot and tired I’d just like to find a bar and drink some ale.”
“Bar, huh? Hmmm. That could prove problematic. If I recall my Tennessee history they were one of the first states to embrace Prohibition and even though Memphis held out for years due to the efforts of Boss Crump he got deposed before the War and the saloons were forced to go underground.”
“What are you babbling about? Underground? Boss Crump?”
“Ex-mayor by this point in time, but still running Memphis his way. Every good Memphis son or daughter has heard how the man still managed to rule ‘til the Fifties. But, and I emphasize but, to drink you have to bring your own into a saloon and get set-ups instead."
Briley sighed. Deeply. “Forget the ale. It doesn't go well with Coca-cola. It doesn’t matter.” His tone changed. “By the way have you given any thought as to where we’re going to stay on this wild goose chase you’ve started?”
“Yep. Sort of.”
“Would you care to share? Or do we need to perform some obscure, bizarre 21st Century ritual to allow us to jump to another time when bars are open and hotels flourish?”
There was more than a tinge of sarcasm in his voice. I ignored it.
The trip to Memphis had been uneventful, boring, and lonely the way one can feel in a crowd of strangers. Briley had bunked with three soldiers who had stayed in the Army after World War One, were now posted in Brooklyn, and on leave for a few days. “Exuberant” was the word Briley used to describe his cabinmates the two times he and I had shared a meal in the dining car. I gathered Briley had to wait to get in any sleep time until the trio was anywhere but near him.
I, on the other hand, had been sharing space with two spinster sisters who seemed old enough to have seen not only the Civil War but The War of 1812 as well. Possibly émigrés from some non-English-speaking country. Neither lady had uttered any words I’d been able to understand during the entire trip. I spent the majority of the journey sleeping in the top compartment listening to them sleep in the bottom compartments. Which wasn’t all bad. I had a sneaky suspicion once we hit Memphis, snoozing would not be part of the program.
I hadn’t mentioned to Briley that every time I’d gone to the dining car, I’d gotten an impression of someone watching me. Nothing specific, but I couldn’t shake
the notion that somewhere in that room, hiding behind a copy of the New York Times or the Daily News or an issue of Life Magazine, a non-acknowledging presence was noting my every move.
I glanced up at Briley. “This is going to be weird.”
A trace of a smile crossed his face. “As opposed to the last week in Manhattan? The last week since I met you?”
I brushed off the implied insult. “I’m just talking about my idea for where we can stay.”
“Go on,” he prompted.
“Well, my great-great-grandparents had a house just off of Beale Avenue. There were – sorry - there are - homes in the downtown area. My plan is to go to their place and see if we can crash there.”
“And have you given any thought as to how you’ll explain your presence?”
I scowled. “Yes. I am not a completely impulsive idiot. I’m going to tell whoever’s living there that I’m a cousin from Alabama - we have family there - and that I’m planning to move to Memphis and needed a place to stay.”
Briley queried with a tone a shade above sarcastic. “How do you plan to explain me?”
“Ah, yes, you do present a problem. Friend of mine looking for work here? Brother?”
Briley’s brows shot up. “Even in our primitive era of no air-conditioning people do understand the concept of families usually bearing some resemblance to one another. You and I don’t look at all alike.”
He had that right. I snuck a peek at his strong features and inadvertently found I was wondering what a generation of McShan/Flynn children would look like. I blushed and found words blurting out before I could stop them. “How about telling them you’re my fiancé? Would that work?"
Briley stared at me. I wanted to march back onto the train and crawl into my top bunk again and not get out until we hit California or parts further west. Perhaps the Pacific Ocean.
Finally he nodded. “That makes sense. I’ve been given a job in Memphis and we’ve traveled down to find housing.”
“Wait. Traveled down isn’t going to cut it. Alabama, my supposed hometown, is south, remember.”
“My geography is good, Mel. But I’ve never been to Alabama and I don’t have your skill for deception. I’ve lived in New York my whole life.”
“Ah. Well, okay. We met here halfway? Um. I met you on a trip to New York. How’s that?”
Briley groaned.“It stinks. But with any luck your relatives will be as spoony as you are and accept it.”
He leaned down and picked up both of our suitcases. Needless to say, mine was light since I’d borrowed both the luggage and only two dresses from inside from Bettina’s closet. But I still shook my head. “I’ll carry my own, Briley. Team effort, remember?”
His mouth set and I saw years of training to take care of the little woman, including bearing all parcels and equipment, battle his desire to catch up to a rapidly changing modern age. Finally he handed me my bags. “You win. Equal rights for women, you say? When?”
"Good question," I mused, but grinned and said, “We get to vote in a couple of years. We get to do just about everything else starting in the 1960s when the women’s movement got started. Talk about suffragettes! Wait’ll I tell you the tales of marching, petitions and picketing.” I quickly added, “Look! There’s a streetcar? Wanna grab it?”
“Anything to avoid this discussion. Yes.”
We ran, jumped on the trolley, paid a puny fare then settled back to ride to my ancestors’ residence. I eagerly stuck my face out the window and tried to get my bearings in a downtown that had changed dramatically from the last time I’d been walking through it.
I didn’t recognize a single building. The faces I saw were primarily black. I remembered that in Memphis history this area had housed black businesses, churches. It was a stark and sad contrast to the Memphis I’d grown up in with the mixture of races and the constant carnival atmosphere of Beale Street with rock n’ roll clubs, restaurants catering to every country, plus jazz and blues joints still packing in music lovers all year around.
I felt a longing for that Memphis so strong it nearly choked me. I’d been in this city in 1919 for barely an hour yet I was already saddened by the buildings in disrepair and the fact that, while Briley and I shared this trolley with about six African-American riders, they sat in the back. The knowledge that it would be another forty years before they ventured toward the front made me sick and angry. I sat back in my seat, depressed. The thought that this was not my time overwhelmed me. I couldn’t even focus on why Briley and I had made this mission to Memphis.
Briley was watching me as though trying to read my thoughts. He touched my hand. “It’ll change, Mel. You told me that yourself. And it will change for the better. Don’t let your own present override someone else’s past.”
I smiled. “Thanks. Thanks for understanding.” I lowered my voice even though no one seemed to be listening. Everyone was busy fanning his or herself to try and find a bit of relief from the stifling heat. “Honestly? I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll never see my Dad or Savanna again. I’m terrified this will turn into a wild goose chase and we’ll never find Denise and Nevin. And, there’s one other thing. I keep getting this creepy feeling someone is watching us.”
Briley patted my hand. Our positions had reversed. His tone held the confidence I’d lost somewhere crossing the border listening to gibberish spoken by the traveling spinsters.
“Mel. No one beside Flo Ziegfeld and Mrs. Donovan are even aware we’ve gone. And Flo’s off in the country for a week and Mrs. Donovan is not going to blab about us to strangers. Secondly, we’re going to find Denise and Nevin and any others held against their will. And lastly, we’ll find a way to get you home again if we have to borrow Mrs. Donovan's magic broomstick to do it.” His voice caught. His next words were spoken so softly I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him correctly. “If that’s what you really want.”
I started to tell him I wanted to be back in the 21st Century, but I wanted him to be there with me. The streetcar hit a bump and I nearly fell onto the floor. I regained my balance in time to look out the window. I squealed.
“It’s Schwab’s! My gosh! It’s A. Schwab’s!”
“What?”
“The department store. It’s still in Memphis. And it looks the same. This is so cool!”
Briley joined me in sticking my head completely out of the trolley to gaze with rapture on the oldest building in Memphis. Even the famous shoe was in the window.”
Briley pointed. “Why is only one shoe in the display?”
I grinned. “Mr. Schwab had a break-in sometime in the late 1800s. The only item taken was one shoe. So he kept it there in the window as a reminder of the burglarly. Okay. I’m calm now. I’ve got a grip again.” I waved as we passed the store. “Thanks, Abie Schwab, for putting me back in touch with reality.”
Briley winked. “It’ll take more than a shoe in a window front to achieve that.”
“Depends on the shoe and the window “ I chuckled as I grabbed my suitcase. “This is our stop. Wow. Great-great Aunt Teresa lived here too until she died in 1982. I inherited a ton of her stuff. This is so weird. I’m going to actually get to meet her.”
The Flynn residence was a typical big Southern house, complete with veranda and rocking chairs inviting visitors to come “set a spell.” The lawn was neatly trimmed and a stone path led from the street through the lawn up to the porch.
We were at the front door. I stared at the large brass chimes. Once either of us let it sound there was no turning back. A wave of fear hit me again but it was too late. Briley had taken charge and was jangling bells for all he was worth.
The door opened immediately. I stood facing with a near-mirror image of myself. Great-great aunt Teresa Flynn, age twenty-five, wearing black gaucho pants, a black shirt and black boots stood in the doorway staring first at me, then at Briley, then back at me. She flashed a grin then gestured for us to come inside. “Welcome home, Melody.”
Chapter 17
If Briley
hadn’t noted the shudder that overtook my body and caught me as I stepped backwards, I’d’ve either fainted in the doorway or run screaming from the Flynn residence shrieking Fiona Belle’s name along with Teresa’s. How the heck did my aunt know who I was?
Briley’s arm steadied me. I suddenly remembered I’d been named after another Melody in the family, a first cousin to Teresa. My Dad used to tell me family stories. There’d been one about Melody, from the Alabama branch of Flynn’s. She’d left the South during World War One and just dropped out of sight and communication.
This was good. This meant Teresa assumed I was that Melody and would graciously allow her cousin and a strange man to enter the house without benefit of passport, driver’s license or a plausible reason for showing up on the doorstep.
I smiled tentatively. “Teresa? Yes? It’s, uh, been awhile?”
That wicked grin flashed again and I had this certainty that my aunt knew damn well I was not cousin Melody from Alabama, but her time-traveling great-great niece, Mel.
“Yes indeed. Well, don’t y’all just stand there bakin’ in the heat. Come inside and I’ll get Agnes to fix us all some lemonade.”
“Agnes?” I asked.
She nodded. “She came in with the new crop of Irish workin’ the lumber mill. She’s only thirteen, but her Mama and Daddy insisted she work for us and stay here while they’re travelin’ around Ireland. Can’t let their darling daughter stay alone.” She exhaled loudly. “I do so long for the time when women don’t have to have someone hoverin’ every damned day. I’m perfectly capable of livin’ on my own.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Teresa Flynn was a card-carrying suffragette. She’d written in her diary (which I also inherited) stories of storming the courthouse in Memphis with a group of thirty other card-carrying suffragettes, then chaining themselves to the pillars and posts until the mayor himself came out to listen to their pleas and their demands for voting rights. Memphis, surprising for a Southern town struggling to get back on its feet after the Civil War and several epidemics, had produced more than one determined young woman anxious to become part of American history and the 21st Amendment.
Haunting Melody Page 11