by W. Green
Emma feigned offense. “What is wrong with my socks? They look authentic to me.”
Ethan chuckled. “They’re not rolled down. The ’63 kids will nail you on that.”
Emma sat on the bench in front of the mirror and adjusted the tops of her socks. “Well, I think this looks stupid. How about now?”
“Stupid or not, that is the look.” He studied her, gazing up and down. “Not bad,” he said. “You’ll have the all the lettermen chasing after you when we get to Chicago.”
“The lettermen?”
“Jocks, athletes, BMOC.”
Emma rolled her eyes and smirked at him. “I know. Big Men on Campus. Well, you look like one of Jerry Lewis’s nerdy movie characters. What did they call them then? A dork. Right, you look like a dork.” She laughed. “Dork…dork…dork. Ethan is a dork.”
Ethan was unperturbed. “You’re really getting into the part. You’ll make a perfect 1963 teenage girl. Pimples and all.”
Playfully, she tossed the book she was holding at his head. He ducked as it flew by, landing harmlessly on the floor. Doing an impromptu tap dance, he commented with a smile, “Pretty quick for a dork. Right, Sis?”
Hands on her hips, she glared at him. “Dork!” she trumpeted as she strutted back into her bedroom.
A.C. Currant entered the inner sanctum, Warren Wright’s safe room. “Reminds me of my laboratory. Nice and quiet,” said Currant. “I guess your employer trusts you quite a bit.”
Wright rolled into the room on his gyromobe and secured the doors behind him. “They trust me. As they should.”
“Where are your two overgrown munchkins?”
Wright smiled. “Upstairs. Trying on their costumes, I would guess. You all set?”
A.C. relaxed into a heavy leather chair and kicked up his feet on an ottoman. “It’s a cinch for me. I’ve got family albums and memories. As a matter of fact, I have some business suits that I wore 40 years ago. They still fit. Yes, sir, I’ve been keeping the old body in shape all these years just waiting for this opportunity.”
Mr. Wright rolled around the large room nodding his head.
“Nervous, Warren?”
Wright pulled to a stop in front of the physicist. “Sorry, A.C., but I am concerned about the twins. This trip could be dangerous. Many things could go wrong. Just the concept of operating in the past is problematic, but add to that the whole JFK thing, along with Ethan’s aggressive attitude…”
Currant tossed his arms out in a stretch and smiled at the detective. “So if it’s so dangerous, why send them?”
Wright rubbed his chin with his thumb. “You’ll need their youth, strength, and skills, and I need your help, A.C. Not just to keep Emma and Ethan out of harm’s way, but for me. I have a favor to ask. A big one.”
“Knew it was coming.” He smiled. “What can I do for you?”
“Just a small thing. I want you to play ball.”
Currant smirked. “Metaphorically?”
“No. The real thing. At 9:12 a.m. on October 31, 1963, at the northeast corner of Clybourn Avenue and Southport Avenue in Chicago, I just want you to catch a little red ball. Don’t worry, it won’t be hard hit. Just an easy grounder. Just be there and stop it. I’ll give you the exact location so you won’t have to be much of a fielder. Can you do that?”
“Is that it? How about some explanation?”
Wright shook his head. “No. The less you know, the better. But it’s important that you complete this assignment. Extremely important.” Wright rolled his gyromobe around so that he faced Currant squarely. “Agreed?”
“For you, Warren. As a friend. If it makes you happy. I guarantee I will catch the little red ball. Just like Frank Malzone.”
“Who?”
“Third baseman. Boston Red Sox. I used to follow the Sox even though I lived in Louisiana. They were my mom’s team. Helluva franchise.”
“Could he catch a ball?”
“With the best—three Gold Gloves.”
“Fine.”
“You know,” said Currant, “given that we’ll be time-travelers, some people might ask me to place a bet on a horse. And then bet the winnings on an unknown hot stock of the future and just have me bring back a stock certificate worth millions. But you…”
Wright smiled. “I don’t need the money, but I do want you to catch that ball.”
“OK, Sherlock. You got it. Red ball.” Currant rose from his chair. “Anything else?”
“Just take care of the Twins and Zak. You are the adult in the group. Right?”
A.C. Currant laughed. “Some might doubt it. But I will watch over your teenage treasures. I’m kind of fond of them myself you know. Especially that Emma. She’s a handful, that one.”
“She is. And she has a great head on her. Listen to what she says. And don’t mention this red ball thing to the kids, OK? This is just between you and me. Man to man.”
“My lips are sealed,” said Currant, adding a zipper-closing hand movement across his mouth. “Mmmm…” Currant made sounds as if he could no longer speak.
“Right… You’re the adult in the group,” said Wright, rolling his eyes.
LOG of Zak Newman
June 28, 2028: 10:37 (Day 1 of time travel)
We’re somewhere below the war memorial, in the concrete confines of Dr. Currant’s timeworks, which he calls “Home,” waiting to go “back door”, as we say in the time-travel business. “Back door” is fine with me. I have no interest in going “front door”, as things can only get worse in the future. I would say we are comfortable, but apprehensive. The air in here is fresh and cool. Today there’s only a hint of subterranean moisture and I haven’t seen any critters. Currant is fussing with his gear and the Twins are discussing the future, or should I say the future “past.” Jacques Dufour is not with us now. He will remain at his post in the school, ever vigilant, evaluating The History (MOM’s official bible of the past) and the unofficial Flitter (opinions, comments, and theories from unidentified rogue electronic sources that can be received by those highly modified and illegal black-market computotronic devices). So, when we return, Professor Dufour will be able to tell us what impact, if any, our little trip in the TimeTravelle has had on the world. I’m hoping things will be better for our efforts, but only time will tell.
Dr. Currant spent the first hour explaining the some of the basics of life in the early 1960s. He has purchased quite a few rare gold and silver coins as well as about ten pounds of common gold coins dating back to the beginning of the 20th century. Since he is a registered numismatist, he is allowed to make such a transaction without causing a fuss with MOM. These, he will exchange for dollars once we arrive. We’re familiar with the idea of dollars. They’re similar in concept to the exos that we use today, except they are paper, not electronic. But understanding the smaller coins is a challenge. The pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters, and half-dollars are what Dr. Currant calls “pocket change.” For my money, carrying these coins around will only create holes in my pocket. I actually like our decimal system of today, although very few transactions involve transferring a part of an exo. A single exo doesn’t buy much and part of an exo buys even less. But A.C. assures us that these nickels and dimes will, in themselves, have some pretty hefty purchasing power in 1963. He’s also bringing some cut diamonds. These, of course, are synthetic. Today, diamonds are just another commodity, like wheat or oil, because of the low cost of creating them. According to Dr. Currant, experts today can’t tell the difference between the real and the synthetic. The synthetic stones are cheap now, but in 1963 diamonds were very valuable and only available in their natural state. They’re small, easy-to-carry, concentrated wealth and they’ll be no problem to sell to the right buyer, says Dr. Currant.
So we have our money and our clothes. I’m dressed as a “good boy” in 1963 terms. Clean-shaven, no sideburns, cloth—not leather—jacket, nice shirt with a collar, tan pants, white socks, and black leather loafer-style shoes. Ethan and Emma are similarly
attired and Dr. Currant is wearing what he calls a “business suit.” It has a blue jacket and matching pants of a very nice natural material. At least I don’t have to wear one of those “tie” things. Currant is wearing a red- and gray-striped one around his neck like an ornamental noose. I must admit he looks rather dignified (looks can be deceiving). But I do hope he fools the people at the coin shop, because we’re not going very far if we can’t get some of those old-fashioned dollars. I’m not really worried, though, because Dr. Currant has a way with words. I believe he can talk his way in or out of anything and find a way to make a profit while he is doing so. Such skills will be useful in Chicago. Thanks to Mrs. Elliot’s English class last year, I can still remember the first few lines from another wordman from 100 years back in time. Sandburg’s Chicago poem.
“Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders: They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.”
Sounds like the story of the JFK shooting. Bon voyage. On to the Windy City.
End 06-28-28
-Chapter 3-
Field Trip to the Windy City
Except for the contemporary yellow safety goggles, their garb was all 1960s. The four travelers stepped up onto the circular grated-metal platform and stood at their assigned places, backs against the slightly slanted cold steel slabs, each located at one of the four quadrants of the perimeter ring of the TimeTravelle—Emma east, Ethan west, Dr. Currant south, and Zak north. Four old-fashioned suitcases and one paisley cloth valise were positioned before them in the center of the circle. There was nothing to do now but stare at each other and wait. Emma and Ethan locked eyes. He could tell his sister was nervous. She wasn’t into advanced technology and the TimeTravelle was certainly on the cutting edge. He offered her a comforting smile. She returned a fleeting flash of teeth, but he could tell she was very tense. He looked at Zak. Now there’s a guy who’s looking forward to this experience. He had the look of a five-year-old on his first trip to an amusement park. And Dr. Currant wore his trademark “shit-eating” smile. His eyes roamed the metal structures above as he surveyed his invention, obviously enjoying the moment. Although everyone had used the machine several times to travel from the chessboard in the war memorial to the underground bunker—a voyage of about thirty feet—none had traveled in time. For the past couple of days, Ethan had mulled over the concept of flying through time to Chicago, Illinois, October 1963. Just thinking about it was exciting. Finally—something big was happening. Life was taking a turn toward the great unknown. He was confident and mentally prepared. His father had given the twins their marching orders—take no unnecessary risks; observe, but don’t interfere; and keep A.C. Currant focused on the project.
Ethan heard a soft humming sound that seemed to swirl around his head like a swarm of gnats. In seconds the pitch and volume of the sound increased to hornet level. Currant said the time-shift experience would be much different than the space-shift into the bunker.
“It’s set to initiate at noon,” shouted A.C. Currant, his voice bellowing against the surging whine of the TimeTravelle device. “Do not move! Or you may leave some of your body parts behind.” He laughed.
Ethan shook his head at Currant’s joke and looked at Emma. She looked really worried now. For the next sixty seconds the machine was alive. Green, red, and blue laser beams shot in front of the travelers, knifing into the spaces between them. Sounds of liquid chemicals rushed through the network of pipes below them. An annoying cracking sound repeated overhead. In total, it was a furious cacophony. He shouted to his sister across the circle of steel, “1963, here we come!” At that moment, he lost sight of her. Time-shift really was different—this was his last thought in 2028. It was as if he was being blown through a tuba of time. An intense swooshing sound attacked his ears. First, everything went black. The only light was a steadily strengthening white dot in the center of his vision. But as he glanced to his left, then to his right, he saw things, events, and people coming into focus and then evaporating just as quickly. The little white dot of light in front exploded into a hot blast of luminosity that temporarily blinded him in spite of his protective goggles. All went black. For a moment, he thought that he had died. Then he felt something on his face—like the gentle warmth of the sun tempered by a light breeze. He opened his eyes, reached up, and removed his goggles. He wasn’t dead, but he was transformed in some manner. More than confident now, he felt totally empowered. He looked out past the concrete chessboard and the peristyle marble columns, down the green grass of the hill, beyond the cliff, over the waters of Mystic Bay—Randall Tower. Its distant bell called out melodically twelve times. It was noon on October 29, 1963. Ethan looked about. Like him, the three others were absorbing the transformation process and easing their minds into the past.
Directly across, Emma removed her goggles and shook off the effects of sixty-five years of travel in less than two minutes time. “That was something,” she said, the words sticking in her throat.
Zak trotted into the circle center. Wearing a big smile, he spun around with his arms extended. He signed three times. “Hijole! That was incredible.”
Dr. Currant appeared somewhat weak-legged before gathering his senses. He looked around, nodded affirmatively, and laughed aloud. “I told you it would work. The TimeTravelle works. I knew it. We made it. Now grab your suitcases and let’s start walking.” He glanced at the clock on Randall Tower. “It’s 12:06. We’ve got to get down into the town center quickly. I don’t want anyone to associate us with the memorial. We’ll keep that secret to ourselves. Let’s go. March.”
The twins, Dr. Currant, and Zak each grabbed a suitcase, with Ethan handling the heavy valise. It was a crisp, sunny, late October day in Mystic Heights. As they walked down the hill, Ethan took in the view. A collage of white clapboard buildings jutted above and between the rust-colored late fall foliage, with only the gold-capped Randall Tower providing a marker above the trees. The serrated treetop edge, which met the rich blue waters of the Atlantic, gently undulated in the wind. Memorial Drive, a two-lane gravel road, wound its way down the hill, penetrating the tree line just west of the water. The tall teen led the travelers along the half-mile walk. By the time they reached the heart of Main Street they were visibly tired. Currant had sought and received several rest breaks on the trek, but now he seemed to gain strength as they walked leisurely along the tree-lined seaside boardwalk. Ethan gazed at the familiar buildings housing shops and offices on the other side of the street. They looked the about the same and yet different. All the occupants had changed from those he knew from 2028. For some, he had no idea of what they sold—dry cleaners? 5 & 10? Army-Navy? Emma gave him a look as they passed something called a hosiery store.
“Selling hoses?”
Currant jumped in. “Stockings, my girl. Nylon stockings. You don’t have any, do you? We’ll have to buy some before we catch our train. You won’t be well-dressed or authentic without a pair of nylons.”
Emma’s eyebrows lifted and she rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, Doctor. I hope they don’t itch.”
“And when we get to Chicago, you have to start teasing your hair,” said Currant.
“Teasing?”
“Don’t worry, that won’t hurt either. It will just make your hair look a little stiffer,” said Currant. “Believe me. All the girls were doing it in 1963.”
“Anything else?”
“We’ll see. It’s been quite a while for me. But if something comes up I’ll pass it on,” said Currant.
“Don’t kill yourself. I’m already feeling weird.”
It was just after noon and the townsfolk were on the move. As pedestrians passed the group they stared at the time travelers, obviously interested i
n these newcomers to Mystic Heights.
Currant’s memory of an earlier time must have been working because he unerringly directed the group up a side street leading to a small rare coin shop tucked into a two-story building fronted by a stone-paved courtyard. The painted sign on the large sheet-glass storefront read: Rich Coins, Est. 1944. Ethan was pleased they had arrived at their destination. He passed the heavy bag filled with coins to Currant, and the three teens dropped onto a sidewalk bench while Currant walked on to the coin shop. In a short time, they heard the sound of a small bell ringing as the coin shop door opened and closed.
Emma, seated in the middle of the two boys, quietly commented, “How quaint—a little bell signals his entry. Strange, isn’t it?” she reflected. “It’s Mystic Heights, but it’s not our Mystic Heights.”
Zak nodded and now using sign language replied. Ethan, who had no trouble understanding the message, laughed. “Zak, I know what you mean. Like an old girlfriend who moved out of town and returned one day to reconnect. She looks just like before except she’s not your girlfriend—and she has a whole new group of friends that she talks about incessantly—and her makeup seems different, but not in a good way—and you notice that one of her eyes is larger than the other.”
Still somewhat dazed from their time-travel experience and tired from their walk, they gazed absentmindedly at the world around them. Oversized, ancient, brightly colored automobiles—Plymouths, Oldsmobiles, Packards, and Fords, looking like metallic water buffalos swaying, dipping, and exhaling foul gases—cruised the street before them. An open-topped auto full of teenage boys and girls squealed around a corner. The driver honked his horn and the girls in the back seat laughed and yelled something unintelligible. On the other side of the street, a red- and white-striped barber pole rotated in a clear glass tube attached to the shop front. Nearby, a young mother carried a baby wrapped in a small blanket. She trailed behind her young son, who scratched his way noisily along the concrete walk, skating on metal-wheeled contraptions attached to his shoes. Overhead, a piston-engine passenger plane droned on, cutting through a few lazy clouds as it climbed over the bay heading south. “You’re right, my friend. This is Mystic Heights, but it’s not our town,” said Emma.