Steamside Chronicles

by Ciar Cullen

  “Why the hell not? As you said, we wouldn’t let a carriage hit a child, so I guess it won’t hurt to introduce a cheeseburger before its time.”

  She smiled at me. A bright, wide smile that made me grin in response. A little more hopeful, I offered my arm to Fen and she took it.

  My peace was cut short a few minutes later as we approached the Hotel Henry. In 2010, you don’t notice the white noise of modern life.

  In 1890, engines, the few you’d encounter, were enormous, loud, and confined to locales like the railway station or factories.

  As astonishing as the police helicopters circling overhead was the complete lack of reaction from the Normals on the busy street. It stopped the five of us in our tracks.

  Screw pointed downtown, and without skyscrapers in the way, you could see a good distance down the length of Manhattan. The sky was specked with more helicopters, circling the same empty spots on the horizon.

  Petti sobbed out a cry, and I pulled her hand away from her face. “What?”

  I realized as soon as the words were out, at the same time the rest did, that we were watching a slice of a day we wanted to forget, nearly had forgotten. But it was an odd slice, with no twin skyscrapers, no crowds, no sirens, no dust clouds or rushing fire trucks. Only helicopters, searching for a way to understand.

  Barber sat on the stoop of a cigar shop and held his hat to his chest. “Damnation. What a thing.”

  “Wouldn’t it be something if we could pull that child from the way of a carriage?” Screw said.

  Yeah, Fen had been right. No one would hesitate to stop a disaster, no one could. But we were breaths away from events leading to the war to end all wars, from an economic crash that would have men jumping off the tops of buildings and leaving children in rags. Who were we to change the course of events? Just a handful of renegades.

  Petti shook her head in disbelief as she wiped her eyes. None of us looked at Fenwick. But she clutched my hand and squeezed tightly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered breathlessly. “I did this one too. God, make it stop.”

  * * *

  You’ll think I’m shallow, but for a while, I was more worried about the sleeping arrangements than the importance of anachros. While Jack and I had checked into the Henry as husband and wife, Barber had stowed our belongings in the same room. I imagined we’d all switch rooms after dinner. Me and Petti, Jack and Screw, and whatever unconscionable spot they’d give to Barber. Instead, I found myself in the tiny privy, sponging the dust of Fifth Avenue off my face and wondering how I would change into evening wear without Screw’s help.

  The Man was feet away, penning notes in his tiny diary, sitting at a desk looking out onto the Avenue. No doubt absorbed in weighty matters while I sweat it out. There was no way of getting into my evening attire without more space. I pulled on Jack’s dressing robe and peeked around the door.

  “Can you go somewhere else for a while?”

  He looked over his shoulder before scribbling in his book. “Sorry, you’ll have to get over it.”

  “I know they have a library or lounge or smoking room or bar or whatever they call it downstairs. I saw one.”

  He turned and faced me. “That’s my robe. Don’t get girly smell all over it.”

  “Come on, Jack.”

  “Firstly, when in Normal, one stays in character and plays the assigned role.”

  “No one consulted me about my role.”

  “Secondly, I’ve seen you half naked with blood and guts sprayed all over you. I’ve seen you in your underwear. Okay, 1890s underwear. What the hell is the difference? You used to go to the damned beach in 2010 in a bikini, parading back and forth in front of strangers.”

  “I never paraded. I am so not a parader.” All right, at least not since college.

  “I’m watching you like a hawk. There’s a very slim chance you’re not causing the anachros, but I want to see every one of them while you’re in Normal. Look, I’ll turn my back, and stay turned, how’s that? Christ, I’m stuck in a goddamned Cary Grant movie.”

  “I didn’t ask for this.”

  “Neither did I, sugar.”

  I wanted to snark back, but realized the truth. We were all in this together, and I was being a royal pain in the ass, even for me. Jack hadn’t killed me, he hadn’t—at least to my knowledge—created the mess we’re in. In fact, it was becoming pretty obvious part of the mess was connected to me. Jack hadn’t treated me badly. He’d taken a punch, accepted my accusations, tried to help my self-esteem by putting me on the Wall. Why couldn’t I cut him a break? Because he just wasn’t that in to me. I’d gone out one Saturday looking for love, and found Jack instead.

  “Hey, Jack.”

  “What now?” But he saw it on my face and his expression softened.

  “Sorry. I’m okay. So, what are you writing?”

  “When I can’t think of anything to write, I just jot down whatever comes to mind. Makes me look busy. Makes me the Man.”

  “My dad used to do that, write in a little notebook. Of course, I take it you’re not writing about how I disappointed you today, are you?”

  “Yikes. Want to talk about it?”

  Poor guy, asking a woman if she wanted to talk. Sure I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to talk with him forever, about everything. What would he think if I described my childhood? He’d grown up in a loving family, with a sister who still worshiped him. I’d peer out at the city lights across the river at night, kneeling on my bed, chin propped on the windowsill, praying some other couple would come to claim me. Or would he enjoy hearing about my scrapes with the law as I nearly burnt out at sixteen? The weeks I’d disappear, live on the streets, or hide out at a boy’s house.

  So good at walking on the knife edge, so close to slipping into the world of addicts, but always pulling back at the precipice. Because, in that unspoiled place we all have deep inside, I had perspective beyond my years. I’d known there just might be another way to live, if I could hold on. I’d been approaching thirty my whole life, and now that the calendar said it was true, at least I could say I was a survivor. Is this what you want to tell a guy who makes the sun rise for you, fills your dreams with joy and your days with fantasies?

  “There’s not much to tell, really. I’m your average girl with an average background.”

  My heart raced at his stare. “You’re average? God, nothing’s average since you arrived. You change everything around you. Maybe even time itself. Maybe me.”

  “Don’t lay that at my feet, mister.”

  “Talk more, Fen. I love to listen to you when you aren’t mad at me. I…”

  What? Tell me Jack. Tell me, I wanted to scream. Spit it out. I fascinate you, you’re glad I’m here, we should be in this room together.

  “Can you hook me up?” I’d managed three of four layers, and pulled up the heavy, beaded lavender gown.

  Jack groaned as he pushed his chair back.

  “I’m not being difficult. I literally can’t do this alone.”

  “It’s not that. Never mind.” I turned my back toward Jack and waited. He stood but didn’t take a step. I’d never understood what people meant about the air growing heavy until that moment. Heavy, quiet, full of potential.

  He cleared his throat and took a few slow strides. He wasn’t nervous, couldn’t be nervous. Just worried about my obvious crush on him, maybe afraid I’d jump him or something.

  I swung around, my dress clutched to my chest, and he dropped his hands. We stared. I thought I’d cry for a second, I was so mortified. He was lost because of me. A guy with a whole world on his shoulders, and I’d plunked a satellite on for good measure.

  I don’t know where I found the nerve. “Jack, we should maybe talk.”

  “We maybe shouldn’t. I’ll just write it down in my little book, how would that be?” He pushed his hand through his hair and kept staring.

  “I want to say I’m sorry. Not for being mad about…well, everything, but about taking it out on you. And for
acting a little adolescent around you, like at your birthday party. I was drunk, and I didn’t mean anything…”

  “Shit.”

  In two steps, he pulled me into his arms. It was the opposite of shredding. The floor fell out from under me and there was a lot of disorientation, but no pain. No pain. I think I made a noise, or said something, perhaps his name.

  He hovered inches over me, his face angled over mine, staring at my mouth, digging his hands into my bare back. In the last year, time was always doing something screwy. Now it stood still. So still, I’m sure my heart was caught between beats.

  I was terrified he’d change his mind, come to his senses. Realize it was me, Fenwick, just a convenient girl in an inconvenient century.

  “Emily,” he murmured. He sounded sad, but not for me. Then I knew it was something. Maybe not what I wanted, but not nothing.

  “Jack, after all, a kiss is just a kiss.”

  “Oh hell.”

  No, a kiss isn’t just a kiss. At least not this one, not with Jack, not for me. I don’t know how long it had been for him, but he poured so much into me, took so much from me.

  We fit, God, did we fit. The brush of his skin, rougher than mine, the fullness of his lips, his scent, his moans, the strength of his hands as they wandered over my skin. We told our fantasies with that kiss—that he would be in charge, that I would welcome anything, he was hungry for it all. I came up for air and he pulled me back in, as if he’d never be finished kissing me. My skin tingled at his touch, and the heat and throbbing between my legs became unbearable as he pushed his body closer to mine, to nestle his erection against me.

  When I thought we were through, he placed his hands on my cheeks, pushed me against the wall, and started over. I’d dropped my dress and now stepped out of it, not caring if it was right, or too soon.

  But it was too soon. He took a step back. And then another. I felt cold, and empty.

  “Jesus, Fenwick.”

  “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare tell me that was a mistake.”

  He sniffed out a laugh and straightened out his hair and shirt, adjusted his pants.

  “If I could form a coherent sentence…” He laughed and threw up his hands. “See, I can’t. Jesus, sugar.”

  “Oh, okay then.”

  “You started it, by the way.”

  “Really? When I told you I loved you? Tell me you didn’t take that seriously.”

  “No, I didn’t. But you did flirt with me at the party.”

  “Sue me.”

  “And then you go on and on about Screw. Screw dresses me, Screw this and Screw that.”

  “You’re a head case, you know that?”

  “So you and he don’t have a thing?”

  “Squeeeeek.”

  “Huh?”

  “That was the sound of the tables turning. I think I like it.”

  “You aren’t going to answer me, are you?”

  “Squeeeek.” I stepped into my dress and turned my back to him again. I caught a glimpse of his smirk in the mirror as he approached. God, he was handsome. Just…God. He looked at me in the mirror and I had to look away as he fumbled with the button loops on my dress.

  “My fingers are big from carpentry, sorry. I’m doing my best.”

  “Take your time.” But I struggled to breathe. My lips tingled from the kiss, and my chest ached at his closeness. “You will have to go get Screw to do my hair.”

  “Wear a hat.”

  * * *

  “There will be three of us.” Damn. My sister and a woman I’d just kissed like a lovesick kid. And she had kissed me back. Hell, she molested my mouth.

  I kept turning away from both Petti and Fen, because one would know something was up, and the sight of the other made my pulse race straight to my crotch.

  Fen looked amazing, and I don’t even think she knew it. Her skin was flushed, I gave myself credit for that, as well as her reddened lips and rapid breathing. She was just as nervous as I was about Petti, too. Petti has that effect on people. For almost three decades, I’d find myself second guessing the most inane things—two teaspoons of sugar in my coffee instead of one, shirts with stripes going what she called the ‘wrong way’, tattoo on the wrong arm. And God help me, the day I bought a pair of brown socks, you’d think I’d burnt down a nursery school with the children in it. It crossed my mind that she’d have a great deal to say about Fenwick. Not that she’d hate it, or love it, but just because. The one thing she swore she’d never do is be like our mother. I don’t think women have a say in that. My sister sure didn’t.

  Petti was now complaining about eating in the hotel restaurant, but I wasn’t in the mood for hauling ass in a carriage downtown. Fen seemed relieved, once she learned Barber and Screw had taken off for parts less stuffy. I loved that she worried about them, and was a little relieved when she asked repeatedly if Barber would manage all right. I didn’t want to hear Screw’s name from her mouth for a long while. He dressed her, she said. He did her hair and buttoned her up. Oh, yeah, I had it bad, and it was getting worse.

  As I ordered for us, feeling a little guilty for having to do so for modern women, I thought Fen would ask about her cheeseburger. But she sat silently, hands folded in her lap. I could practically hear the wheels turn.

  “We need Normal friends,” Petti declared.

  “Friends? God help us, why would we want that?”

  “So we can attend events.”

  “Events?”

  “Events. Balls and dinners and whatnot.”

  “We’re here to talk to an obelisk and understand anachros.”

  “It isn’t talking back. I think Fen needs to take a crack at it.”

  She turned her attention to Fen, who fiddled with her napkin.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Tired I guess. Big day. The shred and obelisks and twin towers and James Dean dying and the monkey…”

  “The little monkey tired you out? You emptied two weapons on the Wall the other night, and the night before drank the men under the table. You aren’t tired. You’re…hiding something.” Lord. She was in Discovery Channel mode.

  “Leave Fen alone, Petti.”

  Petti sat back and grinned. I knew the look, and braced myself.

  “This is rich. Oh. My. Stars. You know that you’re a Leo and she’s a Leo. That’s not good. Let me look at you.” Petti turned in her seat to get a solid look at Fen’s face. “Wow. He laid one on you. Looks like you had that lip plastic surgery when it goes wrong.”

  Fen held her hand up over her mouth. “Shut up, Miss Pettigrew.”

  “For now.” Petti turned her gaze on me. “You have some explaining to do. I thought Fenwick was verboten. Did you two have sex?”

  “Shut up, Miss Pettigrew.”

  “Yes, Mr. Pettigrew.”

  “Can we please get back to business? Tell us more about your ancestor, Fen. The one who was an Egyptologist. It’s not idle dinner conversation. It’s a long shot, but it may be meaningful.”

  “I’ve told you most of what I know. Percival Fenwick squandered a small fortune mounting expeditions all over the world. One of them was to Egypt. Um, now that I think of it, he’s probably there now. Or then. You know? He may have died abroad, I don’t remember.”

  “Gotcha. So if he’s an adult in 1890, then he’s your great-great-great-great grandfather, give or take a great.”

  I managed to look at Fen without being overcome by the masculine equivalent of swooning. She stirred boiled potatoes around on her plate in an un-Fenlike manner.

  “What aren’t you saying?”

  “Don’t like discussing the family much. Grandma always said it started with Percy. He was cursed and the family stayed cursed.”

  “What do you mean by cursed?”

  She shrugged and dropped her fork, and I dropped the subject. I’d pry it out of her, maybe have a lot of fun doing so. I wrestled to keep the image of a near-naked Emily bound, hand and foot, pleading with me… God,
what had gotten into me? I never think that way. Hardly ever.

  “You’re not asking about the disasters. I’m just waiting for you to get to it.”

  Petti arched a questioning brow at me, and in our way, we agreed to add to the puzzle.

  “Jack and I also have an ancestor who traveled the world in search of fame and fortune. Mostly fortune. Claudin Pettigrew. He might be about the same age as your Percival.”

  “Along with several million other Americans.” Fen seemed more uneasy with the topic, but Petti pressed on.

  “Claudin, as you might imagine, was French. Our great-grandfather was the first to settle in the south.”

  “As invigorating as this conversation may be, I’d like to see the dessert menu.”

  “Cake. There’s only cake. We could go to an ice cream parlor, but for now—cake.”

  “Cake’s good.” Fenwick sat up and stared at Petti and then me, cheeks burning. I put my hand on hers because she seemed to need the contact, or maybe I did. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure it out.”

  She wasn’t listening. I followed her gaze and saw what drew her attention. An in-your-face The Original Series, Episode 28 event.

  Our waiter was having a heart attack. The crash of china and cries of guests and workers as they fumbled to help brought us all to our feet.

  Without hesitation, Fen went to her knees next to the ashen man, her hat fallen to the floor, her hair escaping into a waterfall of gold onto her shoulders. She pushed at her sleeves and called to me.

  With her hand on his wrist and her ear to his mouth, she told me to open my pocket watch. “He’s not breathing.”

  She started chest compressions, counting and stopping, counting and stopping, then listening for breath. “Did someone dial…”

  Her look implored me to do something, to make it different. The maitre de pulled at her arm, but she shook him off and went back to her compressions.

  Petti tried to manage the chaos of patrons shocked by the odd behavior of a young woman pushing on a man’s chest. I tried to manage Fen. I’d watched enough TV to know she’d go until her arms gave out, long after it was too late. We both knew that even if his heart beat again, what were the chances he’d live for more than a few minutes, or a few hours? Where were the cardio catheters, the drugs, the bypass surgeons? Too far away.