Past the bulging veins in the driver’s neck, the clock on the dash reads 03:28. I settle into my seat and find the seatbelt. Geo is watching me with an amused, crooked smile.
“What’s the date today?” I ask.
“It’s May 19th. But not for much longer.”
“Are we headed back to yesterday? I’m supposed to be going to lunch.”
“And that is exactly where we’ll take you, but we have a stop to make first.”
“Where’s Mym?”
“She’s waiting right where you left her. Why did you leave her, by the way? What’re you doing on the streets in the middle of the night?”
“I don’t know. I got knocked down and just ended up here. I think there may be an issue with my chronometer.”
“That sounds serious. You should probably let me have someone look at that for you.” Geo’s eyes stay fixed on my chronometer until I slip my arm to my side. “I have some great people for that sort of thing.”
The car makes a series of turns and suddenly plunges down an alley. The driver veers past a set of dumpsters, and the headlights wash over a pair of men with shoulder holsters standing sentry near a metal service door. The car continues past without slowing, and I twist in my seat to take another look at the guards out the back window.
“They’re with me,” Geo says. “We take security very seriously.”
As we near the end of the alley, the way is blocked by a shipping container that occupies the entire space between the buildings. Two more sentries are standing at its doors with automatic weapons. A third guard appears on the left and the driver rolls his window down and slows for him. The guard nods in recognition and signals to the other two. We are close enough to hear the clank of the handle being thrown on the cargo container doors, and they swing wide ahead of us. The driver accelerates and aims the Cadillac up two wheel-width ramps, plunging us into the blackness of the container. I clamp down on the door handle when I realize he isn’t braking, and tense my muscles, expecting any second to crash into the back of the container. Instead, the car is suddenly bathed in daylight as we exit the other side. A rat darts out of the way as we descend the ramps. I bounce once as the rear wheels hit the pavement. I pivot in my seat and see two more guards swinging the container doors shut behind us.
“Holy shit! That was crazy.” I tilt my head to see the sun beyond the top of the alley’s buildings. The driver pulls back into midday traffic and rolls his window up to shut out the blaring noise and exhaust fumes.
“First trip through a time gate?” Geo is watching my face.
“That’s what that was?”
“I told you, Benjamin. You’re moving up in the world.”
The car snakes its way through the arteries of Manhattan and flows out through an ornate colonnade onto a suspension bridge over the river. Another bridge parallels it to the right. I lean forward and address the driver. “Is this the Brooklyn Bridge?”
It’s Geo who responds. “No. That one is. This is the Manhattan Bridge.”
The driver continues as though I’d never existed. I lean back in my seat, then address Geo. “Is he not allowed to talk or something?”
“Tonio is not much for small talk, but he has other admirable qualities. He finds talking less useful.” I note scarred knuckles on the meaty hands resting on the steering wheel and realize that I don’t want to know his other hobbies. As if sensing my unease, Geo smiles at me. “Don’t worry, Ben. You’re in good hands. It helps to have versatile friends in the world these days. It can be a dangerous place out there. You’re safe now.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to get you back, but first I need to drop in on my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“Mothers love it when you visit, Ben. It’s the sunshine of their days. And a man who doesn’t respect his mother is not a man. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Mmm. Yeah.”
“She’ll be elated to meet you. You have quite the reputation in time traveling circles.”
“Your mother is a time traveler, too?”
“Well, not in a very active capacity. She mostly prefers to stay at home, but she won’t say no to the occasional trip to Sicily or Sardinia, and she hates to fly.”
“How does she know who I am?”
“Most time travelers have heard of you, Ben. I don’t know that most would know you on sight, but your name, that’s common knowledge. Anyone who has studied the life of Harold Quickly has to come across your story. I don’t think I’d be far off to suggest that many view you as a hero.”
“A hero?”
“Of course! You saved Dr. Quickly from the jaws of death! How could you not be?”
“I guess I never really thought about it like that.”
“I think you’ll find that the name Benjamin Travers will earn you more than a few drinks from the guys, and as for the ladies . . .” He gives me a conspiratorial wink.
“Well, I guess that’s good news.” My mind shuffles through the memories of my time with Dr. Quickly and the fight to save him. For me it was less than a week ago, but time is irrelevant in this new crowd. The story may have been passed on for years, decades, centuries. Hero. There are definitely worse titles.
As I muse out the window on my newfound reputation, the driver wends his way to a residential neighborhood labeled Dyker Heights. We pull up to a palatial manor house surrounded by a low brick wall, crammed amidst other more modest homes. A sliding metal gate parts for our arrival. Three dark-haired children are playing tag on the front lawn. They pause as the Cadillac enters the gate and then sprint for the car. The trio gives the driver a wide birth as he exits, but when Geo opens his door, they clamor about him eagerly, vying for his attention.
I climb out of the car and watch as Geo picks up the little girl and tosses her in the air. She shrieks and giggles until he puts her down. The two boys likewise beam with affection when Geo musses their hair. He gestures for me to follow and mounts the steps to the door, the children bobbing in his wake.
The front door opens before we reach it, and we’re met by a grinning man in a blazer. His neck has overrun his collar, and his jacket is unbuttoned to ease the strain on its already stressed proportions. The man greets Geo with an embrace and a kiss on both cheeks. Geo slaps him on the shoulder and says something I don’t catch. He then turns to me. “Benjamin, I’d like you to meet Don Bartholomew Amadeus, my cousin.”
The man reaches out and swallows my hand in his. His vigorous handshake threatens to dislocate my shoulder, but his beaming smile is infectious. “It’s an honor.”
“The pleasure’s mine, I’m sure.” I try to equal his enthusiasm.
How does Mym know these people?
Passing the foyer, we enter a din of conversation set over a clattering backdrop of forks and dishes. The large dining room hosts a table to seat a dozen diners. Half are in position over platters and cups, while a spare dozen mill about the room, leaning on mantles or rotating out of the kitchen bearing plates and smiles.
Geo’s arrival is met with more kisses and embraces. He is thronged with grinning adults and leg-clinging children. The doters part for a heavyset woman with a broad face and a mole on her lip, who hands off a plate to a miscellaneous relative, and spreads her arms wide for Geo.
“Hello, Mama.”
The woman claps her hands to Geo’s face and kisses him, speaking Italian salutations I don’t understand. The two commune rapidly, and finally my presence is addressed. Geo’s mother turns to me and squints a smile that could be confused with a grimace. She steps past Geo and slaps a thick hand to my face. For a moment I fear I may get kissed as well, but she contents herself with patting my face twice, then returns her attention to her son. After a few more rapid exchanges, the mother gestures us toward the table and wades back through the relatives to the kitchen.
“Have a seat, Benjamin.” Geo points to the open positions around the table. “Mama is going to fix you a plate.”
“Consider this your appetizer.” Geo smiles. “I doubt Mama is going to let you out the door without sampling her Meatball Parmesan.”
The diners at the table vary in ages. I find an open seat near a grandfatherly man in a suit coat who is engrossed in shredding bits of bread on his plate. He doesn’t pay me any attention as I sit down. A man half his age, with oversized eyebrows, sits across from him. The second man watches me get settled and then hands me the breadbasket.
“You a time traveler?” he asks.
“Yes.” I take the basket from him. “Are you?”
The man shakes his head vigorously. “No, no. You wouldn’t catch me doing that. I like to keep my feet right here and now. What’s your gimmick, though? How did you get to be one?”
“That’s a bit of a long story. You probably don’t want to hear it all, but have you heard of Dr. Harold Quickly?”
“That scientist guy? The one that discovered the whatchamacallit particles—the gravities?”
“Gravi-tites,” I enunciate. “But, yeah. He’s the one that taught me.”
“He turned you into a time traveler?”
“No. That part was accidental. Some colleagues of his tried to duplicate his work in my hometown. They had an accident and a few of my friends and I were affected. Dr. Quickly taught us how to survive, taught us the technical stuff.”
The man holds his hands up. “It’s all beyond me. Geo don’t talk about it much, if you know what I mean. Tends to keep to his own friends.” He laughs but glances around. I get the sense he doesn’t want his complaints heard by our host.
Geo is conversing with an attractive twenty-something woman in the corner of the room. She’s taller than Geo by an inch or so, with black hair that reaches the middle of her back. I’m about to ask the man how old Geo is, but he gets up from the table abruptly and heads for the kitchen.
The old man with the suit coat has finished shredding his bread and is using the fragments to sop up sauce on his plate. Despite his best efforts, much of it is ending up in his shaggy white mustache. The man with the beetling eyebrows doesn’t return, so I fidget with my silverware and glance around at my other companions, wondering how long this detour will take. To the right of the vacated seat is a boy of perhaps fifteen. He hasn’t looked directly at me yet, but I wait until he gets done loading his fork and wave at him.
“Hey.”
He raises his eyes to mine.
“Do you know who that woman is? The one Geo is talking to?”
The boy glances at the pair and looks back to me, still chewing his pasta. “That’s Ariella.”
“Is that his wife?”
The boy shakes his head. “Geo’s not married.”
“So what’s her story?”
The boy shrugs and goes back to his food. I watch the conversation between Geo and Ariella with curiosity. She looks unhappy, but even in her unhappiness, her face is strikingly beautiful. She’s listening to Geo with lips tight, a thin line of resistance to speech, while her eyes flash with unspoken responses.
Her silence seems to be all that is required, because Geo breaks away and grabs the arm of another passing male relative and the two retire through the double glass doors to the deck overlooking the back lawn. Ariella stays standing, her mind still engaged with the things that have just been said. Her stillness is statuesque until, as if sensing my attention, her eyes lock on mine. Anger simmers beneath green shaded lashes. I retreat to the breadbasket, fiddling with a dinner roll and regretting my intrusion.
Geo’s mother appears at my elbow with a heaping plate of pasta and meatballs trimmed with garlic bread and steamed asparagus. She slides the mountain of food in front of me with a symphony of Italian, of which I comprehend not a single word. My cheek gets pinched and my head is patted firmly, then I’m left with a fork in hand and stared at by half a dozen matronly faces. Mrs. Amadeus has been joined by what I gather are aunts or female cousins, all of whom share her ample proportions and intense gaze of expectation.
“Eat! Eat!” Mrs. Amadeus pokes my shoulder with a thick finger.
“Thank you. It looks delicious.”
I dutifully stab my fork into the pile of noodles and, after an awkwardly long attempt to wrangle the errant strands onto the tines, manage to stuff them into my mouth. I make some muffled noises of enjoyment that seem to satisfy the women. They disperse back to the kitchen with murmured comments that I can’t help but suspect are about my need for a bib. As I grab my knife and try to hack the noodles down to a more manageable size, Don Bartholomew deposits himself in the chair next to me.
“You look like a healthy young man, Benjamin. Healthy appetite.”
“Well, I don’t always eat this much. . . .”
“As a young man, I was the same way. I would put away three plates at a sitting.” He pats his protruding belly. “Not that you could ever tell, eh?”
“I can see why. This is really good.”
“When I was your age, I was an athlete. I could wrestle and box. I was amateur champion in my division. The medals are at home on my mantel.”
“That’s cool.”
“Have you ever boxed?”
“No. Just messing around as a kid in friends’ garages and whatnot. I’ve never been in a ring for real.”
“It’s an exhilarating feeling. Pitting yourself against another man in competition is a way to know your worth. Did you compete in school? You look like an athlete.”
“I played baseball growing up. Ran a little track in high school.”
“Ah, a runner. My son Horacio is a runner. He races in all kinds of competitions. I’ll introduce you.”
I nod as I carve off a section of meatball and fork it into my mouth.
“Horacio!” Don Bartholomew bellows toward the foyer. I nearly choke on the meatball in surprise. Two young men near the door are likewise startled by the yell and turn to see the cause of the commotion. Don Bartholomew waves his oversized paw at them. “Go find my son!” The two men look at each other and one shrugs. They slip dutifully through the doorway on their new errand. “Time to put these fellows to work,” Don Bartholomew says, as he tears into a dinner roll. “Friends of my son, but the two of them together aren’t equal to a quarter of my boy. You’ll like Horacio. He’s very talented. Takes after his old man.” He nudges me with his elbow.
Geo returns from the deck and pauses to put his hand on my shoulder. “Everything to your liking, Benjamin?”
“Yes, the food is great, but I’m not sure I can eat all this. What time are you thinking of heading out?”
“Soon enough. Enjoy the company for a bit longer. We’ll have you back on your way shortly. I see you and Barty here have gotten to know each other.”
“Did you know the boy is an athlete, Geo?” Don Bartholomew thumps me on the shoulder with his fist for emphasis. I do my best not to groan from the impact.
“Is he now?” Geo looks down at me with new curiosity.
“Runner,” Don Bartholomew adds. “I’m going to introduce him to Horacio. It’s about time Horacio had another man around who knows a thing or two about competition. These ninnies he hangs around with don’t know anything about proving themselves as men.”
“I didn’t know you were a competitive runner, Benjamin,” Geo says. “That is news.”
“Um, Don Bartholomew is being overly generous.”
“You don’t run races?” Geo cocks his head.
“Well I guess I still run some 5Ks from time to time. We have a Turkey Trot at Thanksgiving that gets a little intense . . .”
“What is a Turkey Trot?” Don Bartholomew moves his head closer to me. I shrink back under his inspection.
“Um, it’s a charity race. You run to support local charitable organizations and . . . cure diseases and stuff.”
Don Bartholomew surveys my face skeptically for a few moments, but then bobs h
is head in increasingly larger nods. Finally he slaps me on the shoulder again. “Good. Racing with a purpose. It is good for a man to have a purpose. And to win. Do you win this turkey race?”
“Uh, I do all right. Competition is pretty fierce, but sure. I hold my own.” I get distracted from the conversation momentarily when I notice Ariella taking a seat diagonally from me. Her face is still serious, but I note her taking an interest in what Don Bartholomew is saying. I realize he’s still speaking to me, and try to pay attention.
“ . . . and we once chased greased pigs as part of our boxing training. How fast is this turkey that you race?”
“Oh. There’s not actually a real turkey that I know of.” My explanation is mercifully interrupted by the return of the two men from the doorway. Striding ahead of them is a well-built man of perhaps thirty, whose muscled arms and abundant body hair are straining the confines of his T-shirt. He surveys the room with an air of boredom before snatching up the chair next to Ariella and spinning it around. He straddles the seat and leans his elbows across the back. I note with a twinge of appreciation that Ariella is not paying him any attention.
“You wanted me, Pop?”
“Horacio, I want you to meet Benjamin.”
Horacio considers me apathetically from across the table.
“Benjamin Travers,” Geo adds.
This addition registers on Horacio’s face. He rises from his chair and extends his hand across the table, clamping down on mine like a vise. “I’ve heard about you.”
“Something good hopefully,” I reply.
He releases my hand and settles back into his chair. I notice that his handshake has dipped my elbow into my pasta sauce. I attempt to remove it discreetly with my napkin, but I catch a smirk on Ariella’s face.
“I was just telling Benjamin about your competitions,” Don Bartholomew beams. “He is also a competitor.”
“Which races have you won?” Horacio asks.
In Times Like These Boxed Set Page 51
