by Pat Cummings
Something poked at his hip, and, rolling slightly, he fished underneath him and pulled out a little orange card that must have fallen from between his papers.
DALLAS HOUSTON
Carpentry ~ Restoration ~ Fine Woodwork.
[email protected]
212.555.1303
“Seriously?” Trace asked aloud. He folded the card, as best he could, into a tiny paper plane and sent it flying. It bounced off the windowpane before landing somewhere down below. What did the guy think, that he wanted to go on a ghost hunt? Now that was just creepy.
10
Ty had managed to duck him most of the day, and by lunchtime, Trace had decided he could not care less. He was studying the food on his plate, wondering what it had been in a previous life, when Presley slid her tray onto the table and plopped down opposite him, already midstream in a conversation she seemed to think they were having.
“. . . like she was ready to annihilate us, like totally eviscerate Ty and me, you know?” Presley looked up at Trace, disbelief and dots of tomato sauce on her face. “Her patience level is very, I mean VERY minuscule, abbreviated, like . . . like, epigrammatic, know what I mean?” Trace didn’t. Presley wiped her face, shook her head, and began furiously trying to cut whatever lay under the spaghetti sauce.
“So . . . ,” Trace ventured. “Ty’s angry at me because Kali got pissed?”
Presley sputtered. She took a sip of water, put down her knife and fork, and leaned across the table, checking over her shoulders as though Kali might be near. “Pissed is for humans; she went total alien cyborg ninja on us. Good thing there were guards.”
Trace grunted. Another day, they might have an interesting debate on whether or not guards were a “good thing.” But he was thinking about his friend. If Ty had felt hurt just because Trace skipped over him and chose Kali first, he probably still had scar tissue after she had publicly blasted him like that. Why was she so upset? Maybe she really did like him? Like how little kids threw things at the one they really liked? Maybe she had been hoping they would get together?
“So just give him time, ’cause he’s sensitive, you know?” Presley concluded. She had been steadily talking and now Trace tuned back in. Stabbing a dainty forkful of cake that was slathered in Day-Glo–orange frosting, Presley pointed it meaningfully at Trace. “Ty needs an intermission. A hiatus. A lacuna. You know? Time.”
Then she turned on a dime and began burbling happily about little-known Abraham Lincoln factoids she had uncovered on Lincoln’s cat, his hat, his favorite dessert. Trace pretended to focus on what remained of his salad and tuned back out.
Time. The first time Trace had met with Dr. Proctor, that had been all she seemed to want to talk about too. “Ever given much thought to time?” she had asked. He remembered sneaking a glance at the clock behind the doctor’s head. His only thought about time was about how much of it he had to spend in that office, how soon he could leave.
“If there really were time machines, if you really could set a dial and pick a time, if you could go back, to that evening on the highway, to the night of the accident, could you have done anything differently?” Dr. Proctor leaned back in her chair, a gentle, quizzical smile on her face, as though she really did hope he would take her back to that bridge, back to the river.
“W . . . what are you . . .” Trace had gulped. She had trapped him that quickly. “What do you mean, do differently?” Did she know it was his fault? That he was the only one who might have changed things? Even now, in the cafeteria, with Presley chattering about cakes and cats and assassinations, he could feel that horrible sensation of his throat tightening, the water pressing.
“It’s just a hypothetical question,” the doctor had said, “a what-if?”
“I . . . I wouldn’t be there. I m-mean, we. We wouldn’t be there,” Trace had stammered. “If I went back, I would . . . I would . . .” The dank smell of the river had seeped into the doctor’s room, sweating its way out of the stripes in the wallpaper. He had felt light-headed. Certain that if he didn’t leave, he really would find himself back there, be somehow delivered to that shore again, facing that water again. He would stand waiting as the car was wrenched out of the river, again, water crying out of every seam.
The bell rang. Trace looked up to see Presley dabbing at a splotch of orange Day-Glo frosting that had become imbedded in her navy-blue sweater. Flashing a quick smile, she scooped up her tray and headed into the flow of students leaving the cafeteria.
Trace made it to English Lit with only seconds to spare. He had finished reading the Shakespeare assignment, but the language had been a pain to follow. He dreaded the hunt for metaphors and symbols that Mrs. Madden would swear were in there. But the teacher flipped off the lights and suddenly an old black-and-white movie flickered across the large screen at the front of the class: A Midsummer Night’s Dream. They had made this thing into a movie? Trace watched as smoky white mist streamed through a dark forest, swirling gently as fairies emerged from it. The old-timey special effects made everything look glittery and soft. Mrs. Madden had said the movie was made in 1935, nearly eighty-five years ago. So all those fairies, even the young boy playing Puck, were probably dead now. But still they danced through those dark woods, trapped in time, all shimmering ghosts. Time could save only their images.
If he could travel through time, he wouldn’t go back and see dinosaurs like everyone did in sci-fi movies. Or to Egypt to find out how they really built the pyramids. He wouldn’t zing ahead either. Trace closed his eyes in the darkened room. He would never travel to a time when everyone he knew was just a memory captured on film. No. He knew he would go back to that day. To a few hours before the accident.
The halls emptied quickly after the last bell and Trace found he had them to himself as he headed for the media center. Time really did make a difference: those halls had been packed that morning. He had walked through them like the invisible man, passing the same kids who ignored him seven hours a day, five days a week. But it was impossible not to brush into them, not to catch bits of conversation, not to get a whiff of their soap, hair oil, perfume, funk. Tomorrow morning, the noise level would be deafening. But now only the sound of his own footsteps bounced off the walls and lockers. Whether crowded or empty, Trace thought, in those halls he was invisible.
Ms. Levy, the librarian, was on the phone when he entered the media center. She nodded, smiled, and pointed at the clock that hung above a row of shelves behind her. Trace knew she was about to close, but he wanted to arm himself with a few more notes before meeting with the study group tomorrow. This time, he would not be late, he would not be unprepared, and he would not just bring in what was expected. The 1860s were a gold mine, and he was going to dig up some nuggets that would impress even Kali.
“Draft riots and the KKK,” Ms. Levy said, swiping the bar codes of the books Trace had quickly chosen. “This is Mrs. Weaver’s class?” The librarian handed him the books with a knowing grin. “The twenties, fifties, and seventies still haven’t been in here,” she said pointedly. “You’d best tell your classmates to get busy. Practically all of the 1800s has been checked out.”
Trace smiled. “Will do,” he lied. He liked Ms. Levy.
She was not anything like what he always thought librarians were supposed to be. She was a curvy, latte-colored Dominican with a Jewish name, an adult who looked like more like a teenager, and she was too chatty to shush anyone without starting up a long conversation. She wore stilettos and leather jackets and she had a tattoo on her back. He had only seen it once. Well, part of it: the head of some kind of bird that was only visible because the sweater she wore one day scooped low on her back. That tattoo was the object of much speculation, Trace knew. Guys in his class talked about her, crudely assessed her looks, her body, and how they could make that bird of hers sing, talk, holler. But they didn’t talk to her, Trace noticed. The guys who wolfed the loudest barely spoke a word to her whenever she checked out their books or helped them on
the computer. And when they did manage to mumble something, they sounded like first graders squeaking out a “Thank you” or a “Yes, Ms. Levy.”
But Ms. Levy reminded him of Auntie Lea a bit, and Trace thought that was why he felt comfortable with her from the first time he met her. She had put on her jacket, grabbed her huge purse, and was still talking as she pulled a ring of keys out of the top drawer of her desk.
“Wait up, Theo, I’ll walk you out,” she said. “The 1860s were pretty dynamic; you got the best decade.” She smiled at Trace as though he had cleverly beat out the competition. “That’s a great project that Mrs. Weaver does. Every year, someone digs up something that is news to me.” Trace waited as she flipped off the lights and locked the door. “And I’m a real history buff, so that’s saying something,” Ms. Levy added.
“Anything you can tell me about the 1860s that might be surprising?” Trace asked as they headed for the front door. “I don’t want to come in with the same ol’, same ol’ if I can help it.” Anyone seeing them might think they were just two friends, Trace thought, walking along after class talking about an assignment.
“Well, that book you picked on the draft riots should be interesting,” the librarian said as they left the school. “You know about the fire at the Colored Orphan Asylum?”
Trace shook his head and grimaced. “Colored?”
Ms. Levy laughed. “Yes, young man. Back in the day, we wuz ‘colored,’” she said, sounding very street. Shoving a hand into her large purse, she pulled out a shiny, dark-blue motorcycle helmet. She raised one eyebrow in response to Trace’s surprised look, then walked over to a motorcycle parked at the curb and rested her bag in a compartment behind the seat.
“It was one of the worst fires on record in the city,” Ms. Levy said. “Rioters burned the Orphan Asylum down. Gangs of hooligans mostly. Misplaced anger, I’d call it. Because they blamed black folks for Lincoln’s Draft Act in 1863.” Ms. Levy climbed onto the bike and rested the helmet in her lap. “Most accounts say the children in the orphanage were all taken to safety. But dig around, Theo. Once or twice I’ve come across a report that says one child was killed, and I’d like to know what you find out, okay?” Pulling gloves from her jacket pockets, she snapped them onto her hands.
“Whoa,” Trace said, shaking his head. “So you’re like a librarian road warrior?”
Ms. Levy just tugged her helmet over her head, lifting the Plexiglas face guard to roll her eyes at him.
Trace held up the books he had checked out. “Will do, Ms. Levy. The Colored Orphan Asylum fire, 1863. One child possibly killed. I’m all over it. Where was the orphanage, anyway?”
“Hey, this is your report, do your research,” the librarian scoffed. Starting her motorcycle, she brushed away the kickstand with her foot. Just before she flipped the visor down, though, she gave Trace a look of mock pity.
“Okay, okay. One tidbit: it was in the very heart of Manhattan. And they put a brand-new building up right over the ashes. Wild, right? It’s the New York Public Library.”
11
He had no idea how long he had been standing there, rooted to the pavement. Rooted. How was it possible that some phrases that he had heard all his life could just suddenly snap into focus like this? He was rooted. He had watched Ms. Levy pull off into traffic, people had walked by him, there was a chilly wind kicking up, and he really did not like the feel of the cold air. But he was as unable to walk as if his feet had been encased in cement. The library?
He saw again the dark-red light on the little boy’s face and all those dusty books on the shelf that he was sure he had seen right through the threadbare shirt that the boy wore. Trace felt queasy. Instinctively dropping to one knee, he pretended to tie his shoelace. Once down on the ground, his head cleared a bit. He stayed like that as people rushed around him toward the subway, eager to get underground and away from the rising wind. When Trace finally did stand up, it was only the wind that unstuck him. Sometimes in his dreams, when he was standing on the riverbank, his legs felt leaden like this, numb. But at least he was able to move now. The wind bit into his ears and Trace turned his collar up against it, blocking it, trying to stifle it. One child.
The sudden warmth of the hallway brought on an unpleasant prickling sensation in his face and hands that woke him up. Trace had no memory of his trip home. He hung his jacket over a hook by the front door as the tiny needles attacking his fingertips began to calm down. One minute he had been watching Ms. Levy ride off on her bike, and now . . .
“We’re in here!” Auntie Lea called out unnecessarily. Salsa music, voices, and the sound of running water were flowing toward him from the kitchen. A thin haze of smoke hanging like gauze beneath the hallway ceiling carried a promising aroma: it was Mexican night. But as hungry as he was, Trace just wanted to duck up the stairs, drop his book bag, and lock himself in for the night. He would explain later, apologize later.
He was on the first step when a sudden clatter of silverware hitting the floor and a stream of high-pitched giggles stopped him. Those were girl giggles.
“Hola, señor-r-r-r,” Auntie Lea said, rolling her r’s with some difficulty. “¿Tienes hambr-r-r-re?” She was wearing a colorful, flowing skirt, a blousy white top that bared her shoulders, and what had to be every string of beads from her worktable upstairs. A silk flower trapped in her hair had seen better days.
At the table, a short, stocky man with a mass of shiny hair was chopping onions. And crouched near his side, scooping up forks and knives into an apron that was way too long for her, was the giggler. She looked up at Trace and he had to smile.
“Theo, I’d like you to meet—” Auntie Lea began. But Trace had already dropped his book bag and crossed the kitchen to pick up the remaining knives. He gallantly offered his hand to help the girl up.
“Trace,” he said, “Trace Carter.” It came out like a flimsy version of “Bond, James Bond,” and he immediately turned toward the man before the girl might catch him blushing. “Hello, sir,” he said, shaking his hand.
The man grinned. “Roman,” he said. “Roman Cervantes.” His dark eyes crinkled with amusement, but if his intent was to mimic the Bond introduction, Trace found he didn’t mind.
“And this is my Angélica,” Roman said, reaching out to hug his daughter near to him.
“Just Angel, Papi,” the girl said. “Hi, Trace. Hope you don’t mind the home invasion. Papi said we were just ‘stopping by’ . . . like two hours ago.” She laughed. Trace only managed a weak smile as he mumbled something that sounded like a cat caught in a couch cushion. She really was an angel. Clearing his throat, he looked away from her face again. “Anything I can do to help, Auntie Lea?” he asked.
His aunt turned toward him, hands on hips, head cocked to one side. More than a few dots of tomato sauce decorated the front of her otherwise snowy-white blouse.
“You look like you’ve been through the wringer, mister. Just get washed up. We’ve got this covered. Diner-r-r-r-ro is in five minutes.” Roman winced. Angel giggled.
Trace grabbed his book bag and raced up the stairs. Money in five minutes. That was more than enough time.
Over a dinner of guacamole and chips, cheese enchiladas, rice, refried beans, and Roman’s “Saint Margaritas” (lemonade with seltzer, it turned out), Trace learned that their dinner guest was the Roman of Roman’s Hardware on Myrtle Avenue and that he and Angel lived a million miles away in the Bronx. It had taken Trace only four minutes to wash up, change into his buttery yellow shirt, and swap his sneakers for a pair of loafers. He was finding it hard to look in Angel’s direction and even harder not to.
“So I was in Roman’s store, trying to find a screw for that leg on my bed, you know the one, Theo?” Auntie Lea was happily scooping rice onto her plate. “The creaking is making me crazy, I swear.” She attacked the beans next.
“A couple of avocados rolled outa her shopping bag onto the counter,” Roman continued. “So what could I do?” He laughed heartily as Auntie L
ea nodded and Angel rolled her eyes.
“I’m not . . . I don’t . . . ?” Trace said. He didn’t get it.
Angel reached across the table and put her hand on his arm reassuringly. “Dad’s, like, the guacamole king,” she said lightly. “He’s never met an avocado he didn’t want to pulverize into dip.” Trace felt his face flush again at her sudden touch, but, to his relief, the girl didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, he began telling me how to make a mean bowl o’ guac but, hey, if I have the master standing right there, for cryin’ out loud, what could I do but invite him to dinner?” Auntie Lea said, popping a chip loaded with guacamole into her mouth.
“We’re full-service at Roman’s Hardware. Nuts, bolts, and so much more.” Roman beamed.
“You should see the place, Theo,” his aunt said. “Roman’s got this shelf that runs all the way around the store, maybe six feet up, and he’s got a collection of metal everything. All this stuff: radios, buttons, old tin cans with cool advertising on them, whirligigs, thingamabobs, all kinda metal toys. It’s surreal.”
“Or what my mom used to call junk,” Angel chimed in. Roman made a wounded face at her. “Please, Papi, you know you only put that shelf up ’cause Mami made you get all that mess outa the apartment.”
Auntie Lea hopped up from the table, and as Roman began to stand up, she motioned for him to stay put. Old school, Trace thought. But he wondered if maybe he should have stood up too. Maybe Angel was used to those sorts of manners. Maybe she thought he was rude. But Angel was concentrating on pouring herself another glassful of Saint Margarita.
“That mess, as you call it, is good stuff,” Roman grumbled. “Some of those pieces are valuable antiques, young lady. Fact is, that ‘junk’ might just put you through college. That is, if you don’t get so smart you don’t need to go.”
