If I Never Get Back

by Darryl Brock

  Incredible.

  I sat in an upholstered chair on which flowers competed with the denser floral designs on the wallpaper. In the past—the future—I’d enjoyed novels and films about time travel. I looked around the room. Somehow I’d imagined the light of an earlier time as being softer, tinted perhaps, as in old photographs. But this looked like any other. How could a June morning in 1869 be so . . . ordinary? I took out my watch and opened it, wondering how late I’d slept—and saw with sorrow that the glass face was cracked and the key missing.

  Andy burst in. “Here!” he said, thrusting a bottle at me. “Hurry! They’ll eat everything!”

  The witch hazel stung my face, its sharp aroma reminding me of the barbershop where Grandpa used to get his hair trimmed.

  “You looked like the blue devils had you when I came in,” Andy said.

  “My watch key’s missing. It must have fallen out on that station dock.”

  “Outside of Mansfield?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Hmm, that’s curious, Sam. Happens I found one on the ball grounds in Mansfield that very day, in the grass behind home plate. Stuck it in my uniform for luck, on account of it being my birthday an’ all.” He pulled his white uniform pants from a traveling bag and unbuttoned a small pocket. “I believe it accounted for my home run yesterday—only one we got against the Niagras. I knocked that ball damn near into Lake Erie!” He laughed. “Harry was on third. You should’ve seen his eyes bug. Here, see if this’ll work in your timepiece.”

  It was small and silver, and its oval grip felt good. It fit the winding knob easily. After a few turns the watch begin to tick. I slid the key snugly into the hole on top.

  “Looks like you got your missing part,” Andy said. “If it ain’t the original, it’s a close match.”

  I held it out. “I can’t keep your lucky piece.”

  He pushed my hand away. “Don’t it strike you queer that you’d have the watch and I’d have the key?” He looked at me quizzically. “Tell the truth.”

  “Yes, it is queer,” I agreed. “Trouble is, everything’s queer.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “It’s awful how things stand for you, Sam. Look, you hold on to that key. It’ll bring me luck, long as you’re around.” He scratched an ear, reflecting. “Want to know somethin’ else curious? I had a notion even back on that train that you ‘n’ me were drawn together special—that you were supposed to help me out of that fix, same as I was to look out for you. Ain’t that a dinger? D’you feel it too?”

  I hesitated, embarrassed again. “When I first woke up, I thought you were my brother. Which is weird, since I never had one.”

  “I’ve got sisters,” he said. “Wouldn’t it be grand to have a brother?”

  We looked at each other.

  “C’mon, friend Sam, let’s eat!” He whooped and steered me toward the door.

  In the long dining room downstairs, black waiters in gold jackets cleared dishes and delivered trays to a dozen tables. I recognized Sweasy among a group sitting at one.

  Andy halted behind a muscular young man with a shock of bushy hair who was bent over a New York Tribune. Looking curiously over his shoulder, I saw that the articles carried no banner headlines but merely one-column captions. I made out cuban revolution, and, next to it:

  THE INDIANS

  Continuation of the Outrages in Kansas—

  A Panic Among the Settlers.

  “This is George Wright,” Andy said. The young man looked up, displaying a prominent hawk nose and white teeth that flashed in a grin. He immediately put me in mind of a very young Joe Namath: cocky, likable, all-jock, probably had to fight women off.

  “How’dya do,” he said pleasantly, accent heavily New Yorkese. He seemed to take my presence for granted.

  We shook hands. I nodded at his paper. “What’s that about Indians?”

  “Nothing new,” he replied. “The usual depredations.”

  In Kansas?

  “I’ve a pal in the army,” George Wright said. “Says you newspaper fellers puff the frontier, make up them bloody tales. I guess you’d know about that.”

  So Millar had told them I was a reporter. “Your friend’s probably got a point,” I said.

  “Figured so.” He flashed the Namath grin again, then his attention shifted. “Say, pass those battercakes!”

  “George is the country’s kingpin ballist,” Andy said as we moved toward two vacant chairs at the crowded table. “His older brother Harry talked Champion into paying George top money to play for us. Nearly two thousand dollars! I guess it riled Acey some, but we’re lucky to have George at any price.”

  Two thousand didn’t seem very much, I thought.

  “I see he even scrubbed the blood outen your shirt,” a sibilant voice rasped as we were about to sit. “You’ve about turned my partner into a nursemaid!”

  I looked into the unfriendly eyes of Charlie Sweasy. He had risen from his chair and stood rocking on his feet, flexing his shoulders. A prize meatball.

  “Wasn’t no job to wash the shirt,” Andy said; then, quickly, “I told Sam about us comin’ up together in Newark, Sweaze.”

  Sweasy’s eyes bored into me as if checking for weaknesses. I felt myself tensing. It was amazing how fast this little guy pushed my buttons.

  “I’m goin’ by,” Sweasy said, shoving abruptly past me into the aisle.

  “Your buddy’s a sweetheart,” I told Andy.

  “Sweaze gets in a pucker sometimes, but he’ll come around square, you’ll see. Here, meet Dick Hurley.” Andy gestured to a sad-eyed, droopy-mustached individual just rising to leave. His dark hair was parted in the center. If Hurley’s face were paler, he’d have looked remarkably like Edgar Allan Poe, I thought. The same haunted quality in the dark eyes.

  “Shhhh.” Hurley dramatically raised a finger to his lips. His eyes were bloodshot; a solitary coffee cup sat before him. “‘Sit patiently and inly ruminate the morning’s danger.’”

  “What?” I said, startled.

  “‘So many horrid ghosts,’” he intoned. “’O now’”—he tilted the finger so it pointed at a man farther down the table—“‘behold the royal captain of this ruin’d band. . . .’”

  He was quoting, but I had no idea what. Maybe Hurley thought he was Poe. In my present state I didn’t appreciate it. Things were disjointed enough. “Okay, I give,” I said. “What’re you doing?”

  Hurley looked smug, as if my ignorance were no surprise. “Henry the Fifth.” The bloodshot eyes held mine for a moment, then again he pointed. I turned and saw a well-built, handsome, bearded man reading a letter several places down, opposite Millar and Champion. “But soft,” whispered Hurley, “there ruminates noble Harry himself.” With that he walked away.

  “Dick’s a study in waking up,” Andy said.

  “He always quote Shakespeare first thing?”

  “Like as not. He’s smart as a whip, took his university course at Columbia. He can recite for hours. Sweaze says he’s just showing himself, but I think it’s like music.” He lowered his voice. “Trouble is, most nights Dick drinks an awful, lot.”

  Andy turned to the man Hurley had indicated. He was now folding his letter into an envelope bearing a three-cent stamp. “From Carrie?” asked Andy.

  He looked up and nodded. He was older and more rugged-looking than the other players. Chestnut hair and whiskers framed the chiseled planes of his face, which looked made of brown stone. But striking among his features were his eyes: soft deer-brown orbs with startling depths, incongruous in the strong face.

  “It arrived this morning,” he said. “She inquires particularly about you, Andy. Says she longs to hear you singing in our parlor again.”

  “Your missus is a peach, Harry. Hope I find one like her. Sam Fowler, meet Harry Wright, our captain.”

  He rose and we shook hands.

  “He’s a big ’un, ain’t he, Harry? Got some use for a change first baseman?”

  I wou
ld learn that “change” meant “backup” or “relief.” Wright appeared to consider Andy’s suggestion seriously, though he had been joking. “Have you played the game?” The quiet voice carried faint British accents.

  I was impressed by his calm authority. And by a sense of integrity in the wise brown eyes that seemed to promise he would recognize and respect one’s best qualities. I found myself wanting to earn the man’s respect right away. Andy said later that Harry affected almost everybody that way.

  “I did play a little ball,” I said cautiously. “Years ago.”

  They both immediately glanced at my hands. Wright smiled. “Years indeed. Andy tells me you’re from Frisco. Do you know the Shepard brothers?”

  “Uh, I don’t think so.”

  “I played with them on the Knicks before they went west.”

  Was he putting me on? “The Knicks?”

  “Knickerbocker Club, New York. I understand the Shepards established the Pacifics in your city. Is it a sound sporting club?”

  “I . . . didn’t play at that level.” I saw no point in relating that my high school and legion games took place almost exactly a century in the future.

  “If you care to accompany us to the grounds this afternoon,” Wright said, “I’ll arrange a seat at the scoring table. Mr. Millar can answer your questions.”

  Millar nodded glumly across the table, clearly not overjoyed by the assignment. But next to him Champion was beaming.

  “Our California visitor,” Champion rumbled, “can thus report our hospitality as well as our sporting deeds.”

  No talk of drunkards now, I reflected. Not when old Stuffed Shirt thought he was dealing with the press.

  “Thanks.” I looked at Millar. “I’ll probably have thousands of questions.”

  The breakfast we sat down to was the most amazing of my life. Bowls of porridge similar to oatmeal were served with fresh strawberries and thick cream. Then platters of steaks, eggs, fried potatoes, and hot biscuits. Then more platters of buckwheat cakes and fried bread. And still more heaped with thick slices of pie. They kept coming, overlapping, so that you could finish the pie and start all over again with porridge if you wished—and were able. I thought I was a big eater, but when I finally leaned back, Andy was reaching for another steak.

  “Don’t you have to play a game today?”

  He laughed and wielded his knife. “Not till three.”

  “What happens in the meantime?”

  “Well, the Alerts—they’re the Rochester club—offered to drive us around to see the sights, but with the weather bein’ what it is, I doubt many of the boys’ll turn out.” He glanced up. “Well, if it ain’t ol’ Acey and Innocent Fred.”

  I followed his gaze and saw Brainard approaching with a stocky, barrel-chested man whose bowed legs gave him a rolling gait. Brainard was a picture of elegance in a blue cutaway coat with satin lapels, plaid waistcoat, and tapered gray trousers. A carnation graced his lapel. His jet hair and whiskers gleamed with oil.

  “Top o’ the day, Sam.” He sat opposite me, dark spaniel eyes friendly, as casual as if we breakfasted together every morning. “This is my sidekick, Fred Waterman.”

  Waterman’s high balding forehead and bland expression gave him the unctuous quality of a church deacon. But his eyes glinted with devilish humor as we shook hands. He must have heard about the flask.

  “What position you play?” I asked.

  “Third sack.” His handlebar mustache moved with the words. “Some at change catcher—though Andy can have that.” He grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. His gaze traveled slowly over my suit.

  My fuzziness was by no means gone, and his scrutiny bothered me. For a moment I toyed with the notion of simply blurting out that I was from another century and needed their help. But what could they do? They’d doubtless figure I was demented anyway. And back here, I remembered, crazy people were thrown into hellhole sanatoriums.

  “Do you suppose,” I asked Andy as the others loaded their plates, “you could loan me enough to buy some clothes?”

  “You bet,” he said with no hesitation. “How about Acey helping fit you out? He always cuts a dash.”

  “Sure, if he wants.”

  “Whadaya say, Acey? Freddy?”

  Waterman shook his head. “That’s Acey’s territory.”

  Brainard considered. “Don’t care if I do,” he offered, which turned out to mean “count me in.” He appraised me. “I think I know just the place.”

  “Not too high-toned,” Andy warned. “All of us ain’t in the dimes.”

  “Pinchpenny ne’er served any,” Brainard countered. “A true gent ain’t gonna stint on his appearance.”

  “That’s a soft snap for you, Acey, with your fat star salary.”

  “Maybe we should forget it,” I said.

  “Don’t let him squeeze our scheme,” Brainard said, as if the idea had been his. “The way Andy kicks you’d think he was on his case note. I’ll pitch in if the cost gets steep.” He looked at me shrewdly. “Besides, you figure to pay us back, don’t you?”

  “Certainly,” I said. And wondered how.

  “I got a hunch about you, Sam,” he said as we walked out through the lobby, where a number of men sat smoking cigars and reading newspapers on horsehide divans. “Can’t say why, but I think our little investment will pay off.”

  “I’ve felt that about Sam right along,” said Andy.

  “I hope I don’t let you d—” My words were lost as I stepped through the front doors and was assaulted by the street. My first impressions were of swarming people and animals and conveyances. Water standing in puddles from earlier showers was sprayed in slicing arcs by passing vehicles. I saw a woman gazing mournfully at the mud-coated hem of her long dress.

  Noise resounded everywhere—a din of yelling voices, clopping hooves, rattling iron-rimmed carriage wheels clanking and skittering over the wet cobblestones. From the nearby train house emanated rumblings and belches. Opposite us stood a brick building bearing a large sign.

  CENTRAL MILLS FLOUR & FEED

  Shrieks of heavy grinding machinery sounded inside. The air around us was awash with whitish particles. I had trouble drawing a deep breath.

  “What is this stuff?”

  “Wheat dust,” Andy yelled. “Rochester’s called the Flour City, you know.”

  The air was cleaner on Front Street, where we walked along the Genesee. Barges rode the green channel and smoke poured from funnels of river freighters. I couldn’t see how so many churning craft avoided colliding. A chorus of bells and horns reached our ears. Along the docks stevedores swore and shouted, swarming over drays and wagons and carts, while teamsters cracked their long whips over the backs of horses and mules.

  “Busy place,” I said.

  “Thing’s ’re boomin’ along the canal, too,” Andy said. “It comes into the Genesee just a few squares down.”

  We turned up from the river toward the commercial district. The brick sidewalks ended. I stepped around muddy puddles and piles of manure. Stenches worked the thick air. Garbage lay in stinking heaps before buildings, hogs and chickens picking through it. The morning was humid but fairly cool. I wondered what olfactory assaults hot weather would bring.

  “This place is filthy,” I said.

  Andy looked surprised. “Air’s a sight better here than in Smoky City.”

  “Smoky City?”

  “Cincinnati.”

  “You’re sayin’ Frisco’s clean?” Brainard said.

  I pictured lower Market. “No, but these hogs . . .”

  “Hogs eat slops,” Andy said. “Clean the streets.”

  So much for that. The enormous distance between us was once again borne upon me. What was I doing here?

  At length Brainard found the tailor he had in mind. There I spent what seemed hours holding up bolts of material while Brainard cocked his head and muttered, “Can’t see it, let’s try another.” Finally we agreed on tan broadcloth for a daytime suit, to
include a frock coat, and another of dark English wool, with tails, for evening.

  “Have them done up today,” Brainard told the tailor. “We leave on the night train.”

  “Two dollars extra,” the tailor said. “Forty-six in all.”

  “Here’s five eagles,” said Brainard, glancing at the gold coins Andy handed him. “Keep the change.” He chuckled at Andy’s indignant look.

  I was amazed. Less than fifty bucks for two suits. With waistcoats and vests, tailor-made in hours!

  We boarded a green horse-drawn car to return to the hotel. Inside were benches for about twenty passengers. A wood stove in the rear had been lit earlier and still trailed wisps of smoke. Because of the wet streets, straw had been spread on the floor for safer footing. A strong animal odor rose from it.

  “What’s that smell?” I asked.

  The glance they exchanged suggested I lacked some fundamental marbles. “It’s a mild concatenation,” Brainard said, adjusting his carnation, “of odoriferous effluvia.”

  “Say what?”

  “Horseshit.”

  Andy explained that as manure dried, the resulting dust was impossible to sweep from cobblestones. After rains, the straw in public vehicles became permeated with it, therefore smelling like horse stalls.

  “I never would have thought of that,” I said.

  “I suppose Frisco’s got smooth paving everywhere,” Brainard said sarcastically.

  His tone irritated me. “Damn right it does!”

  Chapter 3

  After a snack and nap at the Congress House, Andy bounded out of bed and stretched. Seeing his compact body ridged with muscle, I realized I hadn’t been in decent shape in years. He pulled on bright red leggings over shins scarred from spike wounds and adjusted elastic bands at the bottom of his pants just below the knees. Except for the scarlet C scripted on the jersey, the uniform was solid white. He cinched up his wide leather belt and pulled on a white linen jockey cap. Then, holding a pair of high-topped calfskin shoes on which he’d screwed brass spikes, he stood in the middle of the room poised like a gymnast. His green eyes sparkled.