by H. L. Sudler
“We have to go and see it,” David said.
“Yes,” Bart replied, nodding.
There was a scream and then a blast. A large pane of glass had exploded from a flower shop nearby. Someone had thrown a trash can through it. There erupted a scuffle, between the police and the protesters. The police were hitting the marchers with their clubs, the marchers pushing back and yelling, throwing their signs, throwing trash cans and metal newspaper vending machines. The noise in the center of the street escalated and people ran in all directions, cops chasing after them, sirens blazing, people screaming.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Bart said, grabbing Roxanne and David.
“Let’s get into the lobby of the hotel,” David said, but then stopped. Something had caught his eye.
“David, c’mon,” Roxanne yelled, but then she saw what he was looking at.
The pretty girl who had marched alongside him, that smiled at him, was being savagely beaten with her friends by the police with billy clubs. The girl was on her hands and knees, her face masked in blood, her hair matted with it. David ran for her without a second thought, and Roxanne screamed after him, chased him.
He jumped the officer from behind, pushed him to the ground. Roxanne ran for the girl, tried to lift her up. People were running and screaming and pushing by her, as she tried to help the girl out of the melée. She turned to call David, and that’s when she saw him, standing in the open, his hands raised, shouting at a cop not to shoot.
The cop fired anyway, knocking David off his feet. Roxanne screamed. She let go of the girl and ran for him in what seemed like slow motion, in what seemed like a fever pitch of noise, and then no sound at all. When she got to David, he was holding his chest just below his heart. Thick, dark blood flooded from between his fingers, and when she looked to his face, she saw it was pale in anguish. She raised his head to hers, and she thought she heard him say something in her ear. But it was really Janey Hightower’s voice.
The flirty Leo. The peacemaking Leo.
When she looked back down at David his eyes were blank and open. He was dead. The blood from his chest flowed freely as his limp hand fell away. She screamed and cried like she had never screamed or cried in her life. She had never seen anyone killed before. She would never see her boyfriend David alive, ever again. She turned her head, and her eyes fell on the girl she had been trying to help. Bart lay next to her, limp, cops beating him with their sticks, she trying to cover him. He had obviously tried to help her and got caught.
As before, Roxanne turned her head. As before, she saw a group of White men, all cops, yelling at her, although she could not hear their words. She could only see their angry eyes, their angry mouths yelling, their bared teeth. As before, she was hit from behind. As before, she lost consciousness.
It was the easy melody of tweeting birds that woke Bart Tennison.
They sounded like their country cousins out on farm meadows, spirited and gay and talkative. They sounded like their country cousins, because Bart knew where he was before he opened his eyes. He had caught on to this game that Pat Papadopolous played. He had caught on and was resolved to see it to its end. Because that’s where he was, Bart knew. Near the end. He knew David was dead. He saw him shot down. He knew he would have to find Roxanne. But this time they wouldn’t have to run. This time he wouldn’t have to run. Because he would be the one who’d be staying in this time, whatever time it was. The only thing, the only mystery to be solved, was the final question. What was all this for? If not a dream, if not a hallucination, what was all this for?
Was it a lesson?
Were they living out a story to which there was a moral?
Was it all for entertainment? Someone’s jolly?
Bart remembered Pat’s last words to him. God loves you. My gods favor you too.
Bart opened his eyes, and the sky was clear blue, as he knew it would be. He was lying on grass, with his hands behind his head. He had been napping, a pastime shared by others here in this park.
He sat up, as if having risen from a deep sleep, and of course, that was indeed the case. He folded his legs, and ran his hands on the green, lush grass, soft and pleasurable to the touch. He was sad suddenly. He missed his friends. He missed Perry. He missed his life that he had back at school, where everything was planned out. Scheduled, predictable, but fun. Without too much worry.
He sighed, knowing he had to get to work. To keep this storyline moving, what it was. He walked out of the park, without looking back. He knew if he had, if he saw what was in the park, he would never leave. His sole focus should be on finding Roxanne. It was obvious to Bart, if through nothing more than a hunch, that Roxanne was supposed to see this through to the end.
Bart walked up Walnut Street and stopped at a bookstore to see what year he was in. Something immediately caught his eye. The cover of Time magazine, dated September 9, 1991. Above the title was a headline: Are Gay Men Born That Way? Bart shook his head and thought, were they still asking that question in 1991?
“Can I help you with something?” a young man asked. He had on a full apron with his name on it. Eric.
Bart turned around and thought a moment. “Hi. What’s today’s date?”
“September 12.”
“September 12…” Bart repeated, more to himself than Eric. He was trying to think. Trying to remember any historical events on this day in history. There was September 11, but that was in the future, in New York. Actually, ten years from now. But were there any historical events in Philadelphia on this date?
“I see you’re going to the rally,” Eric said.
“Rally?”
Eric raised an eyebrow and nodded. “The ACT-UP rally. At Broad and Walnut. President Bush is in town, and ACT-UP protesters are going there to meet him.”
Bart posed his next question carefully. “What’s ACT-UP?”
Eric made a face, a face that Bart feared he might. As if he had asked the most preposterous question on Earth.
“That T-shirt that you have on,” Eric said, “that’s what ACT-UP is all about. It’s an advocacy group that fights for people living and dying from AIDS. Many that have been ignored by this administration…and the last one.”
Bart knew he had a look of shock on his face, but dropped his eyes slowly to look down on his T-shirt, realizing he hadn’t given thought to what he was wearing after he woke up in the park. The shirt was all black and had in its center a pink triangle with the words SILENCE EQUALS DEATH under it.
“Oh, my God…” he muttered.
Eric cocked his head. “You didn’t know what that meant.”
“No,” Bart said, swallowing, holding up his hand. He was almost out of breath, as his role in this whole story became clearer by the second. “I know what it means. And it means more than you think it does.”
Bart turned away, put back the magazine.
“I’m supposed to be here. I’m supposed to be in this time.”
“I don’t understand,” Eric said from behind.
Bart spun around, took a breath.
“Can you tell me again where this rally is?”
Eric pointed to the door. “Down the street. Broad and Walnut. At the Bellevue-Stratford Hotel.”
Bart nodded and smiled. He took Eric by the shoulders. “Thank you very much. You’ve been very helpful.”
Bart Tennison ran out the bookstore and to the rally. He knew where Roxanne would be.
There were people laying in the center of Walnut Street when Bart arrived. They were mimicking the dead lost to AIDS. They blocked traffic, along with protesters holding signs that read SILENCE EQUALS DEATH, that read SAVE OUR KIDS FROM AIDS TOO, that read HEAR OUR VOICES, STOP AIDS NOW. Some of the protesters were carrying signs with the names of their friends or loved ones, their pictures, their birth and death dates.
The crowd was large, spreading down Walnut Street, spreading up Broad Street, s
pilling over at City Hall. There were police here, in cars and on horses, and secret service agents for President Bush, walking around in suits and sunglasses.
Bart pushed through the throng of people, looking for Roxanne, trying to climb onto newspaper boxes or trash cans to see over the crowd. He decided to stay in one spot, at the corner of Broad and Walnut, despite the crowd all around him, the people squeezing by for a better look or to get close to the action. There was chanting and speeches on megaphones, fists in the air, clapping, hollering, and something he’d heard when he was back in the 1960s: A PEOPLE UNITED WILL NEVER BE DIVIDED! A PEOPLE UNITED WILL NEVER BE DIVIDED!
Bart jumped up and down, tried to see over the crowd. A hand touched his shoulder and he jumped. He turned to a guy, who pointed to another guy, who pointed to Roxanne. She was waving. They squeezed through the crowd to each other. They hugged tightly. Bart pulled Roxanne to a small corner, and he bent to her ear to speak.
“You have David’s chain that he was wearing,” he said.
She yelled back in his ear. “I came through with it.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Just today,” Roxanne said.
“Me too. But…you have to keep going.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m supposed to stay here.”
Roxanne looked at him confused, tired of all this time travel, exasperated at leaving all her friends behind.
“Listen to me,” Bart said, holding her face, looking deeply into her eyes. “You’re the one that has to keep going. I don’t know why. But this here…this rally…this is for me. I’m supposed to be here for this. I don’t know what my point in being here is, but I’m sure I’m supposed to get off here. You…you have another destiny. And maybe that’s just getting back to our time. And being happy.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” Roxanne said, tears in her eyes. “I’m tired of running. I want to stand still.”
Bart hugged Roxanne. “You can’t stand still, Rox. There is only one thing you can do.”
Roxanne repeated Janey Hightower’s words. “Remember the time you’re in.”
Bart nodded. “Something tells me that you’re not going backward. You’re going to go forward. And there’s something about you that’s needed in the future. Just like there’s something about me that’s needed now. Something about all of us in the future was needed in the past to push that time forward.”
Roxanne dropped her eyes, taking it all in. And after a moment, she seemed reconciled with Bart’s analysis and nodded. She hugged him again, tightly.
“Make sure you eat,” she said. “And make sure you take care of yourself.”
Bart was choked up and found it hard to speak. “You do the same. Be good to yourself. Keep faith. Remember us. Keep the chain with you. Maybe I can find you again.”
Bart pulled away from Roxanne, turned from her and pushed through the crowd. He disappeared just as a riot broke out. Fighting between police and protesters. Roxanne went in the opposite direction, away from the crowd. She went back to the Divine-Lorraine Hotel, which was strangely still open after all these years. It was no longer in its best shape, as when she originally stayed there in 1942, and again in 1968. It was ramshackle and unsafe, filled with unsavory characters down on their luck. But it was cheap and served a purpose for transients like herself.
Roxanne ate some food, drank a soda, ate some cookies. She sat alone in her room and cried awhile in loneliness. She grasped hard to Bart’s final words. She grasped hard to David’s chain with the peace sign on the end of it.
She pulled out a sleeping pill and swallowed it with some water. She left the shade up so that she could watch the sun lower in the sky. So that twilight would ease her into sleep. The room, unlit, became dark and shadowy. And slowly her eyes became heavy. Slowly she eased out of this time and into another.
Roxanne looked up. It was daylight, mid-day by the position of the sun. She was in a park, kneeling, and people were running, brushing by her in a panic, screaming. Somewhere, loud, there was a siren, as though at any minute there would be an air raid.
She knew immediately that she was in a new time, despite the fact that the park seemed like it had been around forever. The buildings in the background, skyscrapers, tall buildings, architecture constructed at least in the new millennium, were boxy, glassy, reflecting the sun’s glare, denoting prosperity and growth. A city of tomorrow.
But her eyes were drawn again to the park. Kept, green, with colorful plants and flowers, a beautiful old carousel. The grass was lush, the trees full of leaves, a long reflecting pool with a pensive looking concrete lion in repose at the end, looking like a watchdog over its kingdom.
Why were her eyes drawn to the lion? As if it were a signal, a sign, a secret communication.
Roxanne turned her head, following the lion’s gaze. Directly opposite it was something that made her catch her breath. Her eyes widened. And through the blaring siren, through the running people, she headed to a statue. She couldn’t believe it. Her stomach fell, her mouth grew dry. She moved slowly toward the monument. It was a man, it was him, in a soldier’s uniform, saluting. She reached out her hand. She had to touch the base of the statue, had to touch the plaque with his name.
She read: In honor of Army Lieutenant Commander Perry Jerome Watson, leader of the Negro Combat Troops that pursued German opposition through Italy in the European Campaign of World War II. His leadership resulted in the capture and surrender of 25 German soldiers in Po Valley. He died in combat in Genoa, Italy, August 21, 1944.
Roxanne’s hands flew to her mouth. She let out a squeal of pain. Her eyes teared and she backed away from the statue, to look into Perry’s eyes once again. She shook her head in denial. She leaned forward, hands on her knees.
She could barely get the words out of her mouth. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Perry…”
She gasped and stood straight. Just as she was about to wipe the tears from her eyes, Roxanne saw something else. A plaque, its words like a fist in her stomach, knocking out air, causing her to feel faint. The sign read HIGHTOWER PARK.
Roxanne gulped, her eyes transfixed. Her body was suddenly weak, limp, as if at any moment her knees would drop from beneath her and she would be on the ground, helpless.
“Janey…” she whispered.
The statue was here for a purpose. For Roxanne to see it. The concrete lion was here for her too. A wink. A nod. A secret gesture through time. Her friends were still with her. She was a Leo after all.
But how had the park come to be named after Janey? Wouldn’t she have taken on her husband’s last name?
The question answered itself. Yes, Janey probably had a long and successful life. She was the type that would have been a privileged woman, educated and strong, perhaps a suffragette, or a rich woman who rolled up her sleeves at soup kitchens during the Depression, maybe working with the Red Cross and the war bond drives during World War II. Maybe settling into charity work during her later years, supporting the arts and disadvantaged children and career girls looking for guidance in a male dominated workforce. She would have done it all with a smile, a strong handshake, and a stiff upper lip. An early feminist.
But Janey was anything but stupid. She was through and through Jane Hightower. She had foresight. She knew Roxanne was out there, still traveling through time. And maybe she had crossed paths with Perry once again, had linked up with him despite any racial divides that may have existed at the time of their reunion. She had followed his career right up to his death, and she put this park here, with her maiden name, as a beacon to Roxanne.
Look what we’ve done, Rox. Look what we’ve accomplished. You must keep going. See, I built a proud lion to remind you of who you are. This time needs you, as our times needed us.
The siren still blared overhead, people were still running to buildings, cramming inside. A woman ran up to her. She was young, fraught, with blond
e hair. She pointed to Roxanne’s chest.
“Are you Roxanne? Are you her?”
Roxanne frowned.
“Are you Roxanne? You’re wearing the chain. Are you her? Are you her?”
Roxanne looked down at herself, and for the first time she realized what she was wearing. A white T-shirt, a denim jacket, jeans, and black boots. She was also wearing David’s chain that Bart told her to keep. The one with the peace sign medallion. Roxanne looked up.
“Yes…I’m Roxanne.”
The woman sighed in relief. “This is going to sound crazy, because it’s all crazy to me, the whole story, because you’re young, younger than me…but you knew my grandmother. She said…she said you saved her life. You and a friend of yours. That your boyfriend died saving her years ago.”
Roxanne’s hands flew to her mouth.
“I’m her granddaughter. She always wanted to thank you for saving her life.”
“Is she…?”
“She’s gone. But I have something for you. I was told to give something to you.”
The young woman shoved into her hand a slip of paper, folded. Roxanne opened it, read the short note. She frowned at first, and then gasped. She put her hand on her chest.
COME. WE NEED YOU NOW. FOLLOW THIS WOMAN. SHE’LL BRING YOU TO ME.
But it was the last thing on the note that made her heart beat hard: BT.
She put her hand over her mouth, thought hard. It couldn’t be…could it?
“BT…BT…BT. Is this from…Bart Tennison?”
“Father Tennison?”
Roxanne’s eyes grew wide with shock.
The young woman said, “Father Tennison said you’d look like that when I said his name.”
“He’s alive?”
“He’s an old man now. The head priest at our church. My grandmother was a member. They…found each other. He said we need you. That you’re the only one that can save us. He says that he’s been waiting for you.”