I shimmied into the spare clothes, then started off again, hoping my instincts would guide me to Cincinnati.
At around one in the morning, after over a dozen U-turns, I spotted the city lights in the distance. I pulled into a breakfast diner parking lot and wrangled the convertible top into place. Then I slept, rather uncomfortably with the garment box under my feet, until dawn.
A knock on the driver’s side window jerked me awake. “Hungry, sweetie?”
I opened my eyes to the oval, cheery face of an older woman with pointed glasses. Her silver hair was teased in a beehive, and she wore an apricot-colored waitress dress. The name tag at her breast said LAMERLE.
“Come on in, sugar,” she said, waving me toward the door of the diner. “I’ve got grits. I’ve got hash. I’ve got flapjacks.” She kept listing foods as she walked, but I couldn’t hear her anymore.
After I checked to make sure the Portrait of a Young Man was safe and secure, I opened the passenger door and almost fell out onto the pavement. Every muscle was stiff, and my stomach growled, demanding a living sacrifice. LaMerle unlocked the diner and held the door open for me. I fell into a blue vinyl booth by the front windows so I could keep an eye on my hundred-million-dollar Corvette. A drumline marched and pounded inside my head.
“You look like you could use some coffee,” LaMerle said. She shuffled behind the counter. The coffee maker was filled, then set to percolate. “You like ice in yours? Folks say I’m crazy, but I like mine with ice. You let me know if you want ice.”
I sat there, forehead and nose pressed to the laminate tabletop, wondering if I was experiencing a hangover. My mouth certainly felt rank enough, but maybe I was just tired. I didn’t feel drunk last night, but then again, I wasn’t sure if I would’ve noticed anyway. The only time I ever had alcohol was when Uncle Lincoln handed me a frozen peach schnapps at Christmas and told me it was a slushy. I spit it out on his salmon corduroy pants.
I downed LaMerle’s coffee, without the ice cubes, even though I hated the stuff in Base Life. In this body, though? Coffee was a sweet, dawn-kissed beauty. It was a pure need, like warm blood and fresh air. Like life couldn’t start without it. It was strong and helped shovel the heaviness of sleep off my back.
LaMerle whipped up some fried eggs and a strange kind of sausage made with pork and oats she called goetta, and I devoured those as well. When the breakfast crowd picked up, I left her a nice tip for letting me sleep in her parking lot and giving me directions to the bank.
The Cincinnati Mutual Bank and Trust was a two story brick building at the center of town. Porter had descended back to 1953 a long time ago and opened an account there, which he still had today. He chose that particular bank because it was one of the only ones still intact, having never moved their safe deposit boxes or gone through the renovation after a fire or flood. I was to leave the painting in his box, where it would remain hidden until he collected it in Base Life, over fifty years later.
Which, you had to admit, was pretty freaking genius.
But first, I had to find the key.
There was a post office across the street from the bank where Porter kept his safe deposit box key hidden on the roof. That was so he could retrieve it throughout time. I thought that was pretty ingenious too. I found a fire escape ladder at the rear of the building and climbed. I was still afraid of heights, but since I’d climbed a much taller building with Blue, this three story number wasn’t such a big deal. At the top, I found the air vent on the north side Porter told me about. My hair whipped and swirled as I searched for a loose brick in the low wall surrounding the roof. When I found it, the cement around its edges brittle and flaking away into dust, I pried it out of its pocket with my fingernails.
A flutter of triumph. The tiny brass key winked at me from inside.
I retrieved the garment box from the car and entered the bank. It smelled like new carpet and cigarette smoke. I lifted my chin high. I told the portly, mustached teller exactly what Porter said – that my name was Casey O’Neil and I wanted to open my family’s box, number fourteen.
I expected some resistance, but the teller just nodded and brought me back to a vaulted room with hundreds of narrow brass doors. He stuck his own key into one of the doors and unlocked half the lock. I unlocked the other half with my key. Then he slid the safe deposit box out of its cubby. It was a larger box than all the others – nearly three times the size. He set it on a metal shelf, then left the room to give me privacy. I lifted the long, wide lid.
Inside, there were treasures. A drawstring pouch full of pearls. Several stacks of cash, all in different currencies. An etched, wooden box with gold coins. Dozens of passports, driver’s licenses, and birth certificates. It was Porter’s secret stash – one he could access across time. I ran my fingers over the pearls, the cash, the coins, just to feel the thrill of all that wealth kiss my skin. Then I placed the painting in the box, still wrapped in a sweater.
It was hard to say goodbye, to leave the Raphael behind in that cold, sterile bank vault. But I’d trusted Porter this far, Lord knows why, and I hadn’t caught him in a lie yet. I just hoped we were doing the right thing. That I was on the right side. (And that stealing the Raphael from Gesh would feel like a good kick in his balls.)
DRIVING 101
After I replaced the safe deposit box key in its hiding place, I stopped at a small hot dog joint for lunch. Two construction workers across the street whistled at me when I climbed out of the ‘Vette, which had certainly never happened to me before and took me by surprise. I considered flipping them the bird, the sexist jackasses, but wasn’t sure about the kind of impact that would make. It couldn’t have made much of a difference, right? But I was too scared to chance it. So I flipped them the bird in my mind.
I stopped short before I entered the restaurant, confused by a sign on the window and the two separate entrances. In large painted letters, one side of the sign read: WHITES with an arrow pointing to a door on the left. The other side had an arrow pointing to the right and read: COLOREDS.
The hell?
Of course I’d learned all about segregation in school, and read about it last week when I did my last minute research on the Sixties, but seeing it in action was enough to turn my stomach. I didn’t want to eat on the WHITES side. I’d much rather sit on the COLOREDS side, but if flipping the bird at those construction workers might’ve caused a stir, then making a radical statement like that certainly would.
I turned back to my car. I wasn’t hungry anymore.
What good was traveling back in time if you couldn’t change things? If you couldn’t make a difference? Tell people of their ignorance? Warn them of the outcomes?
I rested against the fender of the Corvette, my arms crossed over my chest, and watched all the boat-like, flashy cars cruise by. I marveled at the hairstyles.
On the thinly veiled surface, the Sixties didn’t seem too different from Base Life. There was an obvious absence of personal electronics and digital technology, but I liked the mechanical knobs on the ‘Vette, the real handed clock towers across town, and the way music sounded floating through tinny speakers. I was fascinated by the bits of conversation I overheard as people walked by, of bomb shelters and the Russians, and how JFK was the hippest Catholic ever. It all seemed so quaint and innocent, but it was a lie. Scratch an inch beneath the surface and you’d find the ugly things they swept under the rug. The segregation, the riots, the hate. All that hate covered up by fluffy hairdos and modest hemlines and bright orange lipstick.
It made me sick. And I wanted to go home.
I let myself enjoy one last cruise in the Corvette, winding through the country hills back toward Jim’s house. I sang along to When the Lion Sleeps Tonight and Only the Lonely and Will You Love Me Tomorrow. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d listened to the radio – I streamed all my music from the Internet back in Base Life. The jokes the Sixties DJs inserted between each song were so silly they were hilarious and made me miss commercia
l breaks. A little. And it made me want to take Claire’s advice and fix up an old car of my own.
Now that I knew how to drive.
A few miles away from the Mitchell estate, my hair-swept cruise through rolling farm fields came to an unexpected end. I pulled off onto the gravel shoulder as the ‘Vette sputtered and rolled to a stop. Glancing at the gas gauge, I saw the needle was well past E. If it had been any other issue, I probably could have gotten the car rolling again, but the thought of fueling up hadn’t even crossed my mind.
Talk about failing Driving 101.
Without a cell phone to call for help, I lay on the hood listening to the radio for almost an hour – shielding my eyes from the sun and letting it warm my skin – before I heard the distant rumble of a single vehicle. It was a dirty, rusty, mint-green Chevy truck with a huge chrome grill on the front. I hopped down when it slowed and pulled to the side of the road in front of me. It sputtered and wheezed, then sighed and settled on its tires.
The driver’s door squawked open, and a young guy with dark hair in nice-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt – sleeves rolled up like James Dean – climbed out. “Need some help?” He flashed me a charming grin as he approached, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag he pulled from his back pocket.
I nearly collapsed where I stood.
It was Blue.
CHAPTER 17
A GHOST
“What are you doing here?” The words tumbled out of my mouth, raspy and dry.
Blue stood before me, as sure and as bright as the sun. As real as the wind. As alive as my swift pulse. But it didn’t make sense. How could he be here? In 1961?
He nodded at the Corvette, still wiping his hands on the rag and answered my question literally. “You broke down. Thought I’d stop to lend a hand.”
He looked almost exactly the same, except he was a few inches taller, and the bridge of his nose was wider. His skin was tinged red from the sun. His hair was a bit longer, a bit shaggier, with the top sticking off to the right like he always ran his fingers through it that way. His eyes were just as shocking blue-green as before. The laugh lines around his eyes were mischievous. Teasing. His voice, kind and smooth, sent a shiver through me. I stepped toward him and lifted a hand to touch his face. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
He frowned and leaned away from my hand. “Do we know each other?”
I lowered my hand.
He didn’t recognize me. I looked completely different than I did in Chicago.
“It’s me, Sousa.”
He stuffed the rag in his back pocket with a slight shrug. “Doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”
I couldn’t speak. My heart had seized. It was hooked on my ribs.
Maybe it wasn’t him. I mean, it couldn’t be, could it? He was just a lookalike. It had to be my guilty conscience playing cruel tricks. “Sorry. It’s just... You look like someone I used to know.”
“I do?” He popped the hood on the Corvette and leaned in to have a look. “What was his name?”
“Nick Piasecki.” I expected his head to pop up, for him to react to the name somehow.
He didn’t.
“Don’t know anyone by that name. Is it your carburetor, do you think? The carburetors on these new ‘Vettes can be testy.”
It took a moment before I processed his question. I was too caught up in the way his white T-shirt stretched over his shoulders. The way it had in his kitchen in Chicago. The shape of his back, his waist, his hips, even his butt – they were all the same. “Uh, no,” I said, swallowing. “Just ran out of gas.” The words fell like dust to the ground. They kicked up in the breeze and swirled away into the fields.
“Oh, well that’s no problem. I always keep a spare tank on my truck.”
I leaned against the ‘Vette, my arms crossed, watching him. How could this guy look so much like Blue? Maybe Nick was a distant relative, but this guy said the name didn’t ring a bell.
He came back to the ‘Vette, carrying a red metal gas tank with a nozzle. He stuck out his hand. “Jack Baker. It’s a pleasure.”
His hand even felt like Blue’s. It was rougher, but the shape, the size, everything matched. “God, even your fingernails are shaped the same,” I said, turning his hand over.
“As that guy you knew?”
I nodded.
“What happened to him?”
I slid my hand from his and re-crossed my arms. “He died.”
He pressed his lips together in a sincere frown. “I’m real sorry to hear that.”
I swallowed again and nodded. This guy wasn’t Blue. He was just his ghost, sent to haunt me the day after Halloween.
The ghost filled my tank, replaced the gas cap, then patted the trunk. “You’re all set.”
I finally managed a weak smile. “Thanks. Who knows how long I’d be here if you hadn’t come along?”
He hoisted the gas tank over his tailgate and set it in the bed of his truck. “You headed to the Mitchell place?”
I nodded. “Jim and I are going out. I mean, going steady.” I didn’t know why I told him that, I guess I just wanted to see how the words sounded on my tongue. I still couldn’t get over the fact that I would have chosen someone like Jim as my boyfriend. And maybe I wanted to see a reaction. Something to tell me Blue was in there somewhere. Inside that Jack Baker shell.
Jack’s chin tipped up. “Ah. Jim.” It was a loaded ah.
“You know him?”
“Eeyup.”
“He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”
Jack laughed. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
I shook my head, looking down at my shoes. “I don’t know what I see in him.”
“No? Well, I can come up with about a million guesses. Just off the top of my head.” He grinned, teasing me. Did he mean I was with Jim because he was rich? If that was true, it made me dislike my 1961 self even more.
Jack clapped a hand on his driver’s door handle. “I best be off. Maybe I’ll see you around, Sousa.”
My heart jumped when he said that. He sounded just like Blue. He gave me a smile – Blue’s smile, a stolen smile – then climbed into his truck.
The thief.
I watched him drive off, my heart a tangle of confusion, until he was a speck of mint-green rust on the horizon. My skin felt cold and foreign. My limbs were hollow. My chest was thick. Knotted.
I had to get out of this body.
I drove to Jim’s driveway and parked right after I pulled off the road. I didn’t care that I wasn’t leaving my host body where I landed. She’d just have to get by from here. Hopefully she’d chalk her memory loss up to all the Tequila she drank. Hopefully Jim would too.
There was no way I was coming back to this life again for a do-over.
Me and the Sixties? We were over.
THE GRILLING
Now it’s my turn to be furious. When I ascend to my garden, I march right up to Porter and punch a finger in his chest. “What the hell aren’t you telling me?”
His welcome-back smile fades. My outburst takes him completely by surprise. “What do you mean?”
“I saw Nick.”
“What?”
“I saw him. I broke down on the side of the road, and he stopped to help me. Nick, the boy from 1927, was there in 1961.”
“Alex–”
“Are you behind this? Are you messing with my head?”
Porter lifts his weathered and age-spotted hands. He looks utterly confused. “I didn’t do anything. I stayed away from your soulmark this time. I let you do it all by yourself.”
“Then how could he be there? He died.”
“Alex,” he says again in his calm, paternal voice. “Sometimes grief can make us see things that aren’t really there. Things we long for. Things we’ve lost.”
I glare at him. The last person who said I was seeing things couldn’t have been more wrong.
“It’s my fault,” he says. “I shouldn’t have sent you on a mission so soon. I shoul
d have given you time to grieve.”
I rub my forehead and shake my head. “He looked just like him. He was the same age. His voice, his ears, his hands.” My voice reduces to a pained whisper. I didn’t realize how much I missed Blue until I saw him again. I’d felt guilty for what happened to him, yes, but I meant it when I made my wish at the fountain. I’d wanted to see him again, even though I knew it was impossible. Just a stupid wish made in the flurry of the moment.
Now? I’m not sure how I feel. All I know is Porter isn’t telling me the whole truth. And he’d said he wasn’t a liar.
Porter rubs his pinky knuckle. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Are you saying it’s impossible? There’s no way it could’ve been the same Nick?”
“How could it have been? You said he was the same age. How could he be the same age in 1961 as he was in 1927?”
I throw my hands in the air. “I don’t know! I thought maybe it could be some sort of paradox thing. I mean, I did mess with his past.”
“If you caused a shift in his history, you did it without my knowledge. There’s no precedent we can use to compare. But I can look into it for you if you like.”
I stand there, frowning at him. Adults are always taking time to “look into things.” In my opinion, it’s just another trick to keep teenagers in the dark. They probably hope we’ll just forget about whatever the “thing” is and let them off the hook. But what else can I do? If Porter doesn’t have any immediate answers, all I can do is wait. Finally I nod, and Porter smiles like he’s fixed everything.
ARC: The 57 Lives of Alex Wayfare Page 17