by Ciar Cullen
“Whatever’s wrong with 1890, I know. Maybe nothing is wrong with it? Who cares? Did it ever occur to you we could just put down our marbles, leave Steamside, live in Normal, and watch it all unfold?”
“Of course. For the first year I was here. You haven’t lived in Normal, Screw. You don’t get it.”
“Haven’t I? Don’t I? You talk as if you’re the only one to have experienced anything since leaving Modern.”
“I’m not preaching. These Normals are beginning to get over a war—on their own soil. They’re in the middle of chaotic changes. Politics, technology, the economy, the immigrants. Do you want to unleash this alternate hell on them? They’d be like children. I know we’re supposed to be doing this. I know it.” God, I didn’t know anything anymore.
“I think so, too. I just wondered if you’d given up. ‘Cause if you hadn’t noticed, we’re losing. And taking pot shots off the Wall isn’t cutting it.”
“I noticed. It’s worse than you know. I saw the Titanic and the Hindenburg.”
Screw wiped his brow and stared at me. “No shit. When?”
“The day I took Fen to Normal.”
Screw and I locked gazes. I flinched first, bending to pretend I was inspecting the velocipede.
“How many anachros did we have before Fen came here?”
“Uh, not sure.”
Screw threw his hair over his shoulder and folded his arms. “You mean you’re pretty sure they started when she arrived.”
“I’m not sure of the date. Maybe about the same time.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. The good news is that we might find a solution. The bad news?” I shrugged.
“That it might mean something terrible about Fenwick. Like getting rid of her.”
“Keep an eye on her for me, would you?”
“Do it yourself.”
“It can’t be me. Don’t you get it? I can’t play in any reindeer games. I’m the Man—dispassionate, invulnerable, a regular Spock. I can’t get tied up in her, especially if she’s the one…somehow…”
“The one. You mean, with a capital ‘O’, don’t you? Maybe if she’s the one causing the problems, she’s also the one who can fix this. Maybe she’s not the villain. Maybe she’s our Neo.”
“No, she’s no villain. At least she’s not doing it on purpose. Screw, don’t say anything to her about the anachros, okay? Maybe I’ll take her to the obelisk and see if it resonates with her somehow. Of course, I might be risking more anachros if they’re tied to her.”
“Wow, cool first date. By the way, you know about the big dance tomorrow, right?”
“Hell.”
“Dude, it’s your birthday. Your public will be crushed if you don’t show.”
“And you’ve already told everyone to get me absinthe, haven’t you?”
Ah, there was the sly grin I knew and loved.
* * *
I’d shown up at Jack’s quarters armored for our meeting and pitched a fit to Barber that he’d gone out. I’d barely slept, fretting about whether he’d be madder at me for slugging him, or if I’d be madder because I was dead. Or not dead. Whichever. Instead, Barber announced that the Man had an appointment, and had asked Petti to take me for an outing. An outing? Was that my consolation prize for death?
We were in Indian summer, and riding a bike uphill, no matter how many wheels it has, is hard work. Petti and Barber showed no signs of slowing down, no matter how I complained. I’d gotten a little soft in the last year, so had my thighs. You keep hearing how our ancestors worked so hard they didn’t need to join gyms and lift weights. Not so, the fine ladies of Manhattan.
“Are we there yet?” I’d already shredded the bottom of my skirt on the spokes of my enormous tricycle.
“Stop bitching,” Petti called over her shoulder. I didn’t think Petti capable of breaking her 1890s character and etiquette. But there she was, wearing only bloomers and a camisole, cursing at me, smoking a pipe.
“I can bitch all I like. Bitch! Bitch! Bitch,” I yelled with each push of the pedal, hoping it would give me some relief from the lump in my throat that said ‘dead, dead, dead’.
We labored over the bumpy lane up the hill past our town, full of ruts and fresh tracks from Jack’s velocipede. So, his urgent business was to take his bike out for a ride.
“Can we get a horse?” I called to Petti. She turned back with a disdainful frown.
“I’m serious.”
I wanted to go fast. Except for shredding back and forth to Normal, which didn’t give you a sense of velocity, I hadn’t gone fast in a long time. Nothing was fast anymore. You couldn’t even dress quickly, with ten pounds of underwear to get on.
Everything about Steamside annoyed the hell out of me since the awakening, as I’d dubbed my nightmare—or vision—of dying. Petti assured me that everyone goes through a meltdown here. It had just taken a serious event in my case.
“I don’t care if you’ve all been through it. You’ve lied to me for over a year. You’re a bunch of sadists, keeping my own death from me.”
Poor Juan, I thought. He would never be the same, never. Was he the one to tell my parents?
Petti had squeezed my hand and stared into my eyes. “It’s not clear whether any of us are dead or not. Do you think you’re alone in this? I swear to you. We don’t know how we’re here. We haven’t lied to you. Everyone wants to go home.”
So I found myself on an outing, boiling over with emotion, angry at the Man for blowing me off, angry at him for laughing at my goony, stupor-induced declaration of love, angry at myself for halfway meaning it.
We settled on an embankment of a little brook, and Petti spread out a blanket while Barber unpacked food from a burlap bag. A very small roasted chicken. Leftover potatoes and cabbage from last night’s meal. Three biscuits.
“I’d like a burger. And potato chips. And a cold beer in a can.”
Barber and Petti exchanged a glance and a sigh.
“I’m not allowed to want anything?” I stripped off my shoes and thick stockings and threw them at Petti. When I was down to my bloomers, Barber collected my clothes and hung them over a low-hanging branch.
“We all want things. We want to fix 1890.” Barber took off his hat and jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and lay back on the blanket, hands folded across his chest. With that, he fell asleep as I flapped and squawked like a disturbed chicken.
“Fix 1890? I want 2010. I want to know who won American Idol. I want movies and subways and grocery stores. I want tampons, damn it. God, I’ll never see the end of Lost.”
Petti ignored me, picking at her meal and letting the last rays of summer kiss her round cheeks.
So that was it? They were going to let me get it out of my system somehow, and ignore me? I plunked on the grass near the stream and watched a pair of red-winged blackbirds light on cattails. Their trilling cry pierced the air as they flashed scarlet epaulets. I lay back and listened to them and the sound of the water trickling off miniature falls.
The sputter of an engine inspired the adrenaline rush I always got when the Man was near. Would he stop and join us? Would he talk to me? Would I talk to him?
“Oh dear,” Petti clucked in annoyance. “He’d better go home.”
“I’m not going to hit him again, if that’s what worries you.”
“He was to leave you alone for a bit.”
The velocipede spit a puff of smoke as Jack cut the engine. I rolled onto my stomach to watch Screw bend down to check one of the tires and Jack watch him. Which wasn’t so unusual, except Jack was shirtless, and wore old trousers rolled up to the knees, and his boots. A chain with a handful of keys bounced on his chest as he turned and started down the hill toward us. I fought to hold onto my righteous anger as I took in how hot the Man was. And God help me, he had the coolest tattoo around one arm.
“He’s at sixes and sevens,” Petti put her hand on my arm as I sat up. “I know the look. Careful, Fenwick.”
“
Me? He’d better watch his sixes and sevens.” I rolled onto my side away from him to hide my flushed cheeks, sorry for the loss of a Baywatch moment.
“Jack.” Barber’s baritone signaled his arrival. Either Barber wasn’t asleep or Jack’s mere divine presence woke him.
“My man Barber. Enjoying the day?”
“Indubitably. As well as the charming company.”
“The company is a little more charming than usual. Petti, haven’t we spoken about the whole traipsing through the countryside in underwear thing?”
“Indeed we have. On several occasions. I take it you’ve forgotten the outcome of those conversations? Fen and I are entitled to run butt naked through the woods if we like.”
“I’d like that,” Barber volunteered.
Screw popped down by his side and took off his shirt.
“Seen her,” he pointed to Petti. “Room with her,” he pointed to me. “What’s your hang-up, Jack?”
Why were they acting so differently around me? The Victorian veneer had rubbed off each of them. As if I were backstage, seeing how they prepared for the magic tricks, each was more real, more Modern.
I sat up and found the nerve to stare at Jack. “This is some kind of meeting. It’s about me, isn’t it? You’re going to vote me off the island.”
“Trust me, sugar, if I was going to vote anyone off the island, it would be me.” Jack sat at my feet, and although I knew it was inappropriate, I propped my feet in his lap. He laughed a bit, but I think I surprised myself more than him.
“No one’s ever called me sugar. I think I hate it.” I loved it.
“You can take the south out of a boy…” He shrugged and began a foot massage that went right to my belly. Well, a little lower.
“You blew off our meeting. Afraid I’d hit you again?” Screw cleared his throat in a not-so-subtle message to tread lightly.
“Aren’t you just a little pistol today?” Jack squeezed my feet and pushed them off his lap. Damn it. “I had to shred to Normal and check a few things out. We’re going there tomorrow, maybe stay a few days.”
“Who’s we? Do I get any say in this?” Oh my God, was I going to Normal with the Man, alone? For a few days? Was he going to dump me off at some flophouse to get rid of me? My righteous anger turned to anxiety.
Petti looked up from the dandelion necklace she was weaving and glanced at Jack. He nodded and stared at me straight on.
“So, Fenwick, we’ll need to get you more clothes, those of a married lady of society. You’ll need a cover. We’ll go as husband and wife.”
“As if.”
“Well, we can’t pretend that you’re married to Screw or Barber.”
“So we’re all going? You’re hiding something. You’re going to dump me somewhere, aren’t you?”
Screw sat and hugged me from behind with his head resting on my shoulder. “We like you. No one’s going to dump you anywhere. I promise.”
“Drink the Kool-Aid and don’t question the Man.”
“That’s right. You’ll see. The more we five are together; you’ll understand how it works. You’re one of us, now.”
One of them? I loved the sound of that, and hated it. I lay back down on the blanket and watched fluffy white clouds drift east. At least the air currents went in the same direction Steamside as they did in 2010. I could hang onto that. The spot reminded me of my Aunt’s farm upstate, where I’d go into the fields to be alone and smell the non-city smells. Like that scent tomato leaves give off when you rub them.
I volunteered for the Wall that night. I know what you’re thinking. How could she? But I knew Juan would probably be back on duty soon after the accident. And sure, I wanted to prove something to Jack, to all of them. The Lieutenant was happy to see me, and said so. It made it worth it.
Chapter Seven
A lovely evening of music and merriment.
Of all my birthdays, my twenty-eighth will stay with me forever. I was ‘almost’ happy. For Petti’s sake, I was prepared to put a good face on. An hour into the party, I wasn’t acting.
She’d enchanted our mess hall into a sepia-toned Mardi Gras. The Dodgers must have worked for weeks, tearing apart a piano and bringing it Steamside, bit by bit. I knew Fatty, a guy from Iowa, was a pianist, but I’d never heard him play, of course. Nor did I dream he would know how to fix and tune a piano.
“Not perfect.” He grinned like something out of an old movie over his shoulder as he pounded away. “Prince Albert lost two of the keys.” It didn’t matter. He was in his glory as he laid out a version of Piano Man, a song I hate more than a sledgehammer to the head. The guy was from Iowa, after all, a poster boy for wholesomeness.
The women were in their Punk best, a few of them in no more than corsets. It didn’t matter that a few of them were fat, a few skinny. I’d never appreciated the female form as much as I did that night. And they seemed damned happy to be out of their layers. Petti was giddy over the news that the bustle was going out of style, and the women talked for a half hour about it.
Screw noticed my subtle glances at the attendees. “She’ll be along.”
“Shut up. And thanks again for the bike.”
“But wait, there’s more!” He pulled me by the hand like a child and led me to a large boxy thing covered in a blanket. “Go ahead, open it. It’s from all of us. Everyone did their part.” He bounced up and down like he was at a 90s concert as the Punks gathered around for the big reveal.
“Nah, let’s wait until later.”
“Go ahead, everyone’s waiting,” Fen said from right behind me, peering over my shoulder. It felt right to have her there. I didn’t turn around, but nodded to let her know that somehow, it mattered. She mattered. And was mattering more every day. I think I stopped trying to fool myself at that very moment. It wasn’t her connection to any vortex that made me want her at my side.
I pulled the blanket off and cried out in astonishment. Holy shit, a pinball machine. An honest-to-God pinball machine. The launcher launched the ball, the levers worked, the bells rang, and it even kept score, with little white tin flip cards.
Screw was still jumping up and down, clapping. I grabbed him and twirled him around. We chest bumped, fist bumped, high-fived, and laughed ourselves senseless.
“You’re a fucking genius. Dude. I’m speechless.”
“You called me Dude! Everyone, did you hear it? The Man broke down and said Dude! Petti and Barber decorated it.”
“And did a damned fine job.” I ran my hand over the glass, burning each image into my brain. Photos of the French Quarter. Pressed flowers and naked ladies. Ships and compasses. Astrolabes and woodworking tools. And the cover of Beeton’s Christmas Annual, featuring Arthur Conan Doyle’s new story about a detective.
Fen tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a present, tied in black lace ribbon.
I sobered up from my pinball high. Would she see it on my face? That I’d spent a night fantasizing about her, spent the rest of the day trying to shake off the heat of the images I’d conjured from my imagination? Women could pick up on shit like that.
She wore her own clothes, her 2010 clothes. I don’t know if it was a statement, or if she wanted a break from the frilly stuff. She was stunning, in a tank top, jeans, and sandals. I broke down inside a little. It wasn’t her, but the look of someone from my time, our time. I had worked so hard through the years to escape the longing for home, and here Fen was, digging up that longing.
“What have we here?” I’m proud I managed a little dignity.
“I think you figured this one out. And by the way, I haven’t read it yet. I mean, not in years, so I get it back when you’re done. Can’t figure out why I’m excited to read it. I can recite it. Screw begged me to rip the cover off for the pinball machine.”
I never met a woman who liked Sherlock Holmes, not in the way I did.
She shrugged, reading my mind. “My dad was a detective. I also watch—watched—CSI and all that stuff.”
“Bet
you’d make a great detective.” Lame, sounding lamer by the minute. Luckily, Fatty chose that moment to break into a polka, and the Punks scattered to make room to dance. I’d put the brakes on marching music, but hadn’t been quick enough to ban polka.
Barber whisked Fen away from me and I pushed through the weaving couples to find a drink. At least twenty bottles of absinthe lined the makeshift bar. Sweet Pea was tending and saluted as I approached.
I saluted back and she broke into a big grin. “Absinthe?”
“I think I’ll save that for my quarters. Any whiskey?”
“No ice. Do you mind straight up? No twist, either.”
“Straight up is great.” I sipped for a while with Sweet Pea and we watched the dance in silence. Until I couldn’t restrain myself.
“How’d she make out last night?”
“She’s here, isn’t she? Looks pretty good to me.”
“You’re not talking.”
“What happens on the Wall, stays on the Wall. Most of the time.”
“She’s okay to be up there?”
“We’ll see.”
“Lieutenant, you’re a little insubordinate tonight. Given I’m in charge and it’s my birthday.”
“Yeah, I guess I am. If you don’t ask any more questions about Fenwick, I won’t tell everyone you pour presents of absinthe down the drain.”
“Damn. How?”
“We have an understanding then?”
“Yes ma’am, we sure do. You’re in charge while we go to Normal tomorrow. May be gone a few days. If anything happens…”
“Sir, if anything happens and you manage to get to Modern, I’ll be a happy woman. In a way, I hope to never see you again. Good luck with whatever you’re up to.”
“Thanks.”
I played pinball most of the night, until everyone was drunk and pawing one another like it was a frat party. As I suspected, the women in underwear did a weird little dance somewhere between stripping and the Rockettes. It wasn’t very erotic, but we cheered them on and they seemed happy.
Petti sat near me on the floor and leaned her head on my shoulder. I held her hand and didn’t say a million things. I love you. I can’t believe you did all of this for me. I hate myself for not getting you out of this. I hate myself for driving too fast that night. I wondered what she wasn’t saying.
