No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  “Week b’fore last, jus’ b’fore the storm, she says to me, ‘Spring ain’t coming just now, you mind my words.’ She scolded me a bit b’cause I gave away my gloves to Chaz a while back, an’ she was worried I’d give him my coat too. Truth be told, I already did. It were small for me, an’ it fits him nice.”

  “And you’re coat probably wouldn’t fit over this sweater anyhow.”

  “That’s true. An’ my neighbor, Mr. Jonas, was nice to give to me. It were his own son’s.”

  “Well, Will, …we’ll see that you have what you need for next winter. I won’t tell you how to spend your money, but you might consider at least a pair of gloves for now.” I tap the brim of my hat. “Until next time. Make sure to keep on the alert for anything suspicious or interesting you think I should know. And remember, tell no one, except your mother. Keep it simple even with her. If she asks, you’re just going more of the same as before. It’s important you keep in mind the danger.”

  “Yep. I got it. I won’t bring trouble home, that’s for sure,” he says. “But b’fore you go, sir, I’ve got news for you already.” He eyes me curiously, tilting his head one way and then the other.

  “What is it?”

  “You’re the chief inspector’s brother, ain’t that right, sir?”

  “Yes, a fact we’ve established already, Billy … Will.” My brows knit together at the strange question.

  “Oh, I know, sir. I just needs to make sure you’s the right person. An’ you came here from New York City?” he asks with growing awe.

  “Yesss.”

  “Ma says there’s a whole street named after you, and that you live in a house the color of lilacs. That true?”

  “Yes, and sort of, yes; I do live in the rather purplish house on St. Clair. So, what is this, Will? Are you practicing your interrogation technique on me?”

  He shakes his head. “Truth is, sir, sometimes, I don’t get your meaning. I can’t even pronounce some of them big words you use.”

  “Have you finished questioning me?”

  “Oh, I get what you’re saying.”

  “And?”

  “So, I’ve two messages for you. Just a minute, though. I got to gets this right. … ’Kay, first of all. … Every day my ma says to me, ‘Stay out of trouble, boy.’ An’ I tells her, ‘O’course, Ma. I ain’t no troublemaker,’ I say. But she still worries, you know?” I nod. “Most of all, nowadays my ma worries trouble’s gonna find me, not the other way ’round. That’s ‘cause since we met, you and me, staying out of it ain’t as hard as b’fore, see? An’ for that she says I haf to thank you when I get the chance. So, thanks, sir, and cross my heart, I swear for forever that I’ll do a good job, whatever you ask me to do.”

  I smile tightly and swallow a lump in my throat. “You’re very welcome, Will. I have no doubt of it,” I manage, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. Despite the struggle he endures day in and day out, his mother and sister care for him as best as they can. He is clean, hail, willing, and good-natured. With several of us working together, he might turn out better than fine. “And what’s this other missive you have for me?” I ask, rubbing my gloved hands together. “I didn’t feel the cold much either when I was your age, but I think it’s decided to take up residence in my bones while we’ve been standing here.”

  “The rain’s coming, that’s why.” He looks down at his ankles, the band of flesh above his socks having turned pinker. “So Mrs. Edmond…” he starts, then asks himself aloud, “or was it Mrs. Edwin?” He bobs his head decidedly. “Anyway, uh, that lady will be waiting for you at Lenny’s at a quarter past one. That’s what Mr. Carr told me to tell you.” I nod as though I know who Mrs. Edmond or Edwin and Mr. Carr are. Billy and I then say our “Goodbyes” and go our separate ways.

  I hurry down the street and turn on Lake, staying on this side of the river. Lenny’s is tucked back from the road a little, sheltered by Sherwin, Williams & Co. Paints and Colors to the east and nothing to the west for now. Directly across the street from the paint supplier is a five-story, undesignated Indiana-stone building under construction. The Marine Bank, prior to the fire, occupied the northeast corner; another structure is underway there as well. Although there is no signage, it could be the Bank reconstructed. And I don’t know precisely what stood in front of Lenny’s; I think it was a general commercial building, but nestled between the two almost complete structures is now a shiny new park.

  I meet the curious gaze of an elderly woman sitting at a bench against the front window under the deli’s maroon and white striped awning. She has an expectant air about her. I presume she is Will’s Mrs. Edmond or Edwin. Her pale coloring and almost elfin features cast her as both ageless and old at the same time. Though she’s appropriately dressed for the weather, now that I’m fully aware of the bite in the air, I wonder at her fortitude.

  Her gloved hands are folded over the ivory knob of a rather dangerous-looking black umbrella. It looks like a bat. In a high wind, it could very well unfold its wings and whisk her away. She turns briefly to prop it against the corner of the bench, then reconsiders and loops it through a scroll in the frame, pivoting back in my direction with a smile on her face. I stride over and tip my hat to her, intending to walk through the deli’s entrance unless she stops me.

  “Ehm. Good day to you,” she says in a high-pitched though oddly melodic voice as she looks up at the sky and then the fluttering leaves of the small maple a few feet away. “Take care to hold on to your hat, dear,” she suggests.

  I follow her advice and slam a hand on top of my bowler just as a gust of wind blows and spiral around us. The pennants along the canopy’s edge flap violently, the sharp clink! of the pull cord hitting the crank mechanism giving me a start. The tiny woman, however, remains unfazed, her ungloved fingers casually holding together the ties of her bonnet.

  After the surprising gale has passed, she draws close the ruffles of her midnight blue gown and pats the space next to her on the slatted-wood and black iron bench. “Edwina Agnes Carr,” she says, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Mrs. Carr,” I greet, taking the seat and bobbing my head over her proffered hand, lightly clasping her dainty fingers.

  “It’s miss, actually,” she says. “I have never married, although my brother—was he alive—would bid me rephrase my statement in a more positive light. The opportunity may yet arise, you see. ‘Never say never,’ he has said,” she explains with a playful lift to the corners of her small bowtie lips.

  Her remark has me wondering if our meeting is instead a case of mistaken identity. I’m not recognized about town like my brother is, and he’s definitely considered more the eligible bachelor than I’ll ever be. And yet, not only is she not his type, she’s ten or fifteen years too old for him. But whatever, Archer is perfectly capable of dealing with the vying misses for himself. “Reid St. Clair at your service, ma’am. What might I do for you?”

  She purses her lips, causing the skin above her upper lip to wrinkle in vertical lines. A distinct twinkle of humor plays her pale-brown eyes. “Please, let it be Eddy or Edwina.”

  “All right, Eddy. Wouldn’t you like to sit indoors?” I twist around to scan the small waiting counter inside the deli.

  “No. This is fine.” She pauses for a long moment, and I debate whether to ask her again what she requires of me.

  “Do you know the story of the phoenix, dear?” she asks, and without waiting for me to answer proceeds. “It is a creature from Greek and Egyptian mythology, a legendary creature revived, sometimes over and over, from its own ashes. Not unlike Chicago, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I understand there are those lobbying to have the state flag altered to accommodate for the image of a flaming bird.” Her keen eyes study me as she speaks, and a ghostly little smile bends across her pert lips. “Now, I hope you will not think me overdoing the connection, but when Birdie Day died this morning, leaving behind little Avis, which incidentally al
so means ‘bird,’ I took it as a sign to introduce myself to you and your brother.”

  I am having a little trouble following her trail of breadcrumbs. The phoenix was a resurrection creature, and I’m not sure what that has to do with us. We didn’t come back to life; we simply survived the inferno that started the night of October 8, a year and a half ago. Also, I have no idea who Birdie Day is. Maybe Edwina Carr is unstable?

  “Starting with you,” she says and adds in a whisper, “Miss St. Clair, I believe.”

  Too stunned to speak, I wonder if I’d really heard what I thought I’d just heard. A tingle inches up my spine, and I nervously swipe a gloved finger across my mustache. I glance sidelong at a customer walking past to enter the deli and shift in my seat.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. St. Clair,” she says, using the appropriate salutation precisely as the door of Lenny’s jingles open and a pair of women exit. “Your secret is safe with me … oh, and my nephew. You see, since the source of my information is spiritual, it isn’t precisely credible. And although there are those who heed my advice and trust in my guidance, most people—simpletons—hereabouts think I am either a quack, a witch, or a senile old biddy despite that I am entirely sane and am but eight and forty.”

  The bouffant of platinum hair under the black bonnet along with her frail-looking aspect and figure is possibly the reason for the misassumption. Even after meeting her and thinking back, the vision of an ancient ethereal creature might come to mind, one with a profusely wrinkled visage, gnarled boney fingers, fathomless soul-stealing eyes, and pale translucent skin. In actuality, possessing none of these chilling features, she looks more like a bright pixie than a witch.

  “Have you recovered enough from your shock, my dear?” She casts a glance over our surroundings ever so casually.

  Confused but unbelievably relieved, I manage to croak, “Yes.”

  “Splendid.” Crooking a delicate finger at me, “Now, who are you under this costume truly?” she asks, puckering her lips sternly and peering at me as though down her petite nose. “What is your real name? And specifically, who is Reid? Let us begin there.”

  “River. I’m River,” I blurt in my normal voice. Her eyes widen, reminding me to put my guard back up. “Reid was our brother, though biologically not mine. We were born on the same day, and we grew up together. His mother was my aunt.”

  “Ah.”

  I have no idea why I’m being so loose-lipped with a relative stranger. It’s as though I’ve been injected with the Apparency vaccine. “Reid died in the fire. … At first, I borrowed his name without thinking. Now I think it a fated idea. It allows me to remember him and honor his memory at the same time. He was my best friend.” To push Reid back into the recesses of mind as if to forget him wouldn’t be fair to his memory or to me. I have Aubrey Milner to thank for that. Mr. Milner had died a horrific death, and his death forced Archer and me to deal with our grief.

  Then a different thought wedges itself in between countless others. It would be nice to be out of character with someone other than my brothers and Allen. I suspect that Martin knows the truth already, but he’s been quiet about it so far. I could tell him myself, of course. But, regardless of my faith in him particularly, men around here seem incapable of having friendships with women, and I might lose one of the few friends I have if I’m mistaken about Martin.

  “And what about the older gentleman? Where is he now?”

  “Hm?” I murmur, Martin’s cheerful visage coming to the forefront of my mind.

  “The white-haired man? He bears a close resemblance to the chief inspector.”

  My brain is too befuddled to realize she’s talking about Dad, a man she can’t possibly have seen, so I find myself replying bluntly, “Marlowe. The blaze took him too.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Quinn also looks a lot like him.”

  “Quinn?”

  “My other brother. He doesn’t leave the house much.”

  “Hm. So, it’s just you and your two brothers now in that big house? As well as a couple of female servants?”

  Despite the quiet bustle surrounding us, our conversation continues easily, and I answer Edwina Carr’s questions without asking any of my own. “And Allen.”

  “And who is he?”

  “Our does-everything-we-need-him-to-do man as well as a friend.”

  “I see.” A light breeze rustles her skirts, and a strand of near-white hair comes loose of her bonnet. She demurely tucks it back underneath. “Still, three men can hardly be sufficient company for a young lady. And due to your odd predicament, you have little society, I think. Am I wrong?” She slants a glance at me. “What of the feminine heart that resides under your waistcoat? Is it wholly satisfied with this arrangement? Are you not lonely?”

  I shake my head, disregarding my “feminine heart.” That ship had sailed, traveled far, and sunk just off the coast of Destination island. “Lonely? No, not really.” My brothers are good to me is my first thought. After all, unlike most men these days, they don’t expect me to sit in a corner embroidering cushions while they discuss “important” matters. Nor have they ever suggested I entertain them with a lively set on the piano—sorry, the harpsichord. No, I was right the first time; we have a pianoforte. Anyway, but then, I think of Selene. Just having her around to commiserate with, however infrequently was a relief, and I realize my examples are rationalizations more than anything. My perspective has become muddled. “Well—”

  A clatter from a carriage disrupts our conversation. A shiny black conveyance with gold trim pulls up ahead, and I glimpse a man’s profile before he reclines in his seat again.

  “I would gladly continue our talk; I’m curious to know more about Dr. St. Clair, our most unusual medical examiner, as well as the motivations of the woman behind the title. But alas, my nephew is here.” She reaches behind her and deftly untangles her umbrella from the rail.

  I stand to help her to her feet. At just over five feet tall, she is roughly three inches shorter than me. The glint in her eye—as if she’s discovered me, a diamond disguised as an ordinary pebble—stirs me to pull back my shoulders proudly. “It was my pleasure, Eddy.”

  “I have been in anticipation of our meeting for some time, my dear, so let us not debate whose pleasure is greater, yours or mine.” She stands expressionlessly frozen in front of me for a few seconds, then finally asks, “Perhaps you will allow me to venture a parting question?”

  “Sure.”

  “It will certainly shock you,” she warns.

  “I doubt anything you ask could, Eddy.”

  “We shall see.” Tilting her head to the side, she says, “And still, I hesitate; I don’t wish to frighten you away.”

  “You know, I’m not exactly sure why but I find myself more intrigued by our chat than scared. And I’m no simpleton.”

  “Not nearly.” She pulls on her gloves, gently touches my forearm, and grants me a grandmotherly smile.

  “After all, I proved myself by following your advice—and before we’d even exchanged names.”

  “You did? How so?”

  “I held on to my hat, which saved me from chasing after it like a fool.”

  She chirps a small laugh. “Well, that had little to do with my special insight and more to do with recognizing weather patterns, I’m afraid. But all right, as my nephew awaits, my question is this: Would you return, given a chance?”

  “To New York City? I don’t see why,” I answer without pause, furrowing my brows at the decidedly not-shocking question.

  “Ah, so you are not from Chicago then? No matter. I rather meant to your time, my dear. Would you return there?” Faced with my blinking stupor, her eyes twinkle, and her mouth wrinkles in impish delight. “This question will require a good deal more introspection, I see.” She grants me another of those knowing glances before swishing away amid a mound of skirts toward her ride.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  EDWINA CARR IS something else. But th
en I had never before encountered characters like those I’ve met these past eighteen months. In many ways, I find this society excruciatingly primitive, and yet, it’s so much more complicated and, therefore, interesting. For this reason alone, I could answer Eddy’s question without thinking twice about it.

  Had I met her a year ago, I might have chosen differently. I was then and had been for the six months prior to that, dwelling in misery, mired in loss, feeling sorry for myself, and longing for all the little conveniences of my former life too much to see the truth. Namely, that that life had been bland and empty of real worth. Sometimes I think there isn’t much more to the future world we create than it being a place where humans make a show of existing. Outside of Clarion, I don’t have a clue how everyone else in the twenty-second century actually lives or what they call living.

  Then, there, my own existence had amounted to days filled with work hours and the blurry bits in between. Not once did I stop to think about what it was all for or that I was glossing over the really important stuff.

  Add to that several other implacable realities. Vale is not waiting for me; rather, he’s serving a life sentence on Merce Island. Willow would still be long gone. If Reid and Marlowe are not alive and well, it would be too painful to bear. The stress of managing the Division’s investigations again will revert Archer back to an on-again-off-again surly bully no doubt. Allen and Selene will go back to being little more than colleagues we see only every once in a while. And what will become of me—sequestered in my lab with only Mr. Toole, my clinician, for company?

  In a daze of epiphany, I’ve been pondering the back of Abe’s wavy mop of dark brown hair for I don’t know how long. But some thought causes me to clutch the paper sack in my hand tighter. The sound crunches through the bustle of the station’s usual goings-on around me.