Another Place in Time

by Tamara Allen

  “Yes.” Warren eased them down into the bed together, his arm across Stefan’s chest, their heads close together on one pillow. Stefan’s fine hair lifted to the puff of Warren’s breath. He should have gotten up to turn off the light, but this was too perfect to want to move.

  “And now, what?” Stefan said, toward the ceiling.

  “Now we live.” Warren kissed his hair and the rim of his ear. “Live, fuck, work, hope for peace.”

  “A detailed plan.”

  Warren was pleased to hear the thread of humor in Stefan’s tone.

  “No point in planning all the details. Life always surprises you. But goals, yes. Those are worth having.”

  “And you have some?”

  “For now, sleep. After that, to get inside that fine ass of yours. Long term?” He thought about it. “Two confirmed bachelors can live side by side, in a friendly way. Helping each other out from time to time. Then perhaps one day, if Mother chooses to move in with her grandchildren as my sister has suggested, those men might even live together to save money. It’s still far too soon to be sure, but I think that might be a good goal.”

  Stefan turned and wriggled up the bed enough to seat his chin in Warren’s hair. That lovely jaw was a bit hard and sharp, but Warren wasn’t complaining. Stefan slid his arm around Warren’s back. “That sounds nearly perfect to me,” he said.

  Half a year later, Stefan and Warren sat at careful opposite ends of his mother’s couch, while Mother leaned forward in the armchair. They all stared at the radio as it warmed up, popped, and hummed to life. Words that would change the world crackled, rough but clear, relayed halfway around the globe.

  “Tuesday May eighth, 1945, will be remembered in history. We have this from the BBC in London . . .

  “. . . Yesterday morning at 2:41 a.m. at Headquarters, General Jodl, the representative of the German High Command, and Grand Admiral Doenitz, the designated head of the German State, signed the act of unconditional surrender of all German land, sea, and air forces in Europe . . .”

  They’d heard the news already from President Truman, who had celebrated the victory while reminding his people that the war against Japan raged on. But this was better, this speech in Churchill’s rolling, powerful British voice. They listened together to the end of their personal war.

  When the BBC relay was done, Mother shut off the set. Stefan looked at them both, his eyes shining. “I cannot believe the fighting in Germany is over.”

  Mother stood and laid a gentle hand on his head. “We’re all so very thankful today.”

  “Yes.”

  She said, “I think I’ll go bake something. I have a little of the fat ration left. I think we need a cake. I’ll be in the kitchen for a while, baking. You’ll stay and have some when it’s done, Stefan?”

  Warren stood and gave her a long, hard hug. “I’ll see that he does.” When she’d left the room, he sat down again, close alongside Stefan this time, thighs and shoulders touching. “A remarkably tactful woman, my mother.”

  “Yes.” Stefan turned toward him, nuzzling in blindly against his neck.

  Warren enveloped him in his arms and dared a small kiss, despite the half-open curtains. Any impropriety might be forgiven today. “Love you.”

  “And I you. More.” Stefan returned the kiss softly, then sat back.

  “Of course, there’s still Japan,” Warren pointed out.

  “We will prevail. Our boys are the best,” Stefan said stoutly.

  Warren hid a smile of pleasure at hearing him be so staunchly American. “We sure will.”

  “Europe will need a generation of rebuilding, though. So much has been lost. Dear God, Hamburg, Dresden. So much time and skill will be needed to rebuild even a fraction of it.”

  “Do you want to go back there?” Warren kept his voice even, like mere curiosity, like this wasn’t life and breath to him. “Your skills with languages would be valuable. You might do better than road building for a job. And you could look for your brother, too.”

  “No!” Stefan stared at him. “Hell, no. I’m an American now, and here I stay. Better employment, yes, that I would like to find. But not if it takes me away from here, or away from you.”

  “Good.” Warren let out a deep breath.

  “I do hope to discover what has happened to Ernst, one day. Perhaps even my father.”

  Warren thought secretly that Stefan’s father was no loss if gone, but he said, “There may be lists. After a while, as things get more organized, we can try to find out about them.”

  “Yes. Maybe.” Stefan leaned in against him, staring blindly at the silent radio in the corner of the room. “I cannot believe everything is over.”

  Warren tightened his arm across Stefan’s shoulder. “Everything?” he said. “Oh, my dear man, the war in Europe may be over, but we’re just beginning.”

  About Kaje Harper

  Kaje Harper grew up in Montreal, and spent her teen years writing, filling binders with stories. But as life got busy, the stories began to just live in her head. The characters grew up, met, endured, and loved, in any quiet moment she had, but the stories rarely made it to paper. Her time was taken up by work in psychology, teaching, and a biomedical career, and the fun of raising children.

  Eventually the kids became more independent and her husband gave her a computer she didn't have to share. She started putting words down in print again, just for fun. Hours of fun. Lots of hours of fun. The stories began piling up, and her husband suggested if she was going to spend that much time on the keyboard she ought to try to publish one. MLR Press accepted her first submission, Life Lessons, which was released in May 2011. Kaje now has many novels and short stories published, including bestseller The Rebuilding Year, and a selection of free short stories and novels. She currently lives in Minnesota with a creative teenager, a crazy omnivorous little white dog, and a remarkably patient spouse.

  Contact

  Website: kajeharper.wordpress.com

  Goodreads: goodreads.com/author/show/4769304.Kaje_Harper

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Coca-Cola — The Coca-Cola Company, Atlanta, GA

  Camels — Reynolds Innovations Inc., Winston-Salem, NC

  Vaseline — Conopco Inc. d/b/a Unilever Co., Englewood Cliffs, NJ

  Levi’s — Levi Strauss & Co., San Francisco, CA

  Indian Chief — Indian Motorcycle International, LLC., Medina, MN

  Studebaker — Studebaker Motor Company, Inc., Arvada, CO

  Author’s Note: “Carousel” takes place between the events of Stormhaven and Necropolis.

  Late on a Sunday afternoon, I sat in the study, afraid to write a letter.

  It shouldn’t have been such a hard task. Letters were simple things, weren’t they? I wrote a handful a week: to my cousin Ruth, to friends out west, to clients. At one time I’d written faithfully to my adoptive parents back in Kansas and received their letters in return.

  Two months had passed now with no word from them. Ever since Pa insisted I choose either my lover or my family.

  “Griffin?” asked the man in question from his chair near the fire. “Is everything all right? You seem pensive.”

  I blinked out of my fog and turned my gaze away from the blank piece of paper and to him. Percival Endicott Whyborne, who turned his back on the family fortune to pursue scholarship. His dark hair stood up in short spikes, tamable only by large quantities of macassar oil, and then only temporarily. He was startlingly tall at over six feet, but his slender build gave the impression he was composed mainly of long limbs and awkward angles. Our marmalade cat, Saul, sprawled over Whyborne’s lap, purring loudly enough to hear across the room.

  The rest of the world, with a few exceptions, thought Whyborne my good friend and boarder, rather than my lover of almost a year. Although “lover” seemed hopelessly inadequate to encompass ev
erything he meant to me.

  He had been my rock through so much already; there was no question I could rely on him now. “I’ve been considering whether I should attempt to find my brothers,” I said.

  Whyborne’s eyes grew shadowed. He knew my history. My brothers and I were adopted at separate stops on the orphan train, all contact lost ever since. “I thought you said the task would be nearly impossible.”

  “It will be.” I toyed with the pen absently. “But thanks to my work with the Pinkertons, I know a few men who will be able to investigate in New York and out in Kansas. I was going to write a letter to one of them, to ask him to make the attempt, but . . .” I trailed off.

  “But you’ve already lost one family,” Whyborne said quietly.

  “Yes.” It hurt, knowing Ma and Pa no longer wanted anything to do with me, once they’d learned the truth of my relationship with Whyborne. If I found either of my brothers, I might have to go through the same loss again with them in time. “I’m just not certain the risk is worth it, Ival.”

  Ordinarily, the pet name drew a smile from Whyborne. This time, he only looked uncomfortable—but his relationship with his family had never been particularly harmonious. “Griffin,” he began.

  A knock sounded from the front door downstairs. “I’m not expecting anyone,” I said, rising to my feet.

  “Neither am I,” Whyborne said, a bit unnecessarily, as he wasn’t social by nature. His only close friend currently made her way to Egypt, if she hadn’t already arrived, and no one else ever called on him. He returned to his book, and I went downstairs to answer the door.

  I didn’t recognize the man on our stoop. He had a thin face and bushy beard and looked to be one of Widdershins’s less affluent citizens. Although neat and clean, the elbows of his coat were worn thin, careful stitching betraying a mended rip, his hatband faded from the sun.

  “Please, sir, forgive me for calling at this hour,” the man said. He looked not to have slept for at least a night, his eyes baggy and reddened, his face sagging with weariness. “I’m in desperate need of your help.”

  “Now, Mr. Dalton,” I said, setting the coffee cup in front of our visitor, “this is my friend, Dr. Percival Endicott Whyborne. Do you mind if he joins us?”

  As I’d predicted, Mr. Dalton—for so my unexpected caller introduced himself—let out a soft gasp, and his eyes went wide. Of course the Whyborne name would get a second notice anywhere, given his father owned one of the largest railroads in the country. But here in Widdershins, the Whybornes were far more than railroad tycoons. They were one of what Ival euphemistically referred to as the “old families” who’d helped to found the town.

  Of course, they’d founded it on a base of necromancy and blackest sorcery. If the average inhabitant of the town guessed that part, though, they kept it to themselves.

  “N-not at all,” Dalton stammered. “It’s an honor, Dr. Whyborne.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dalton,” Whyborne said with the reserved air he tended to use around strangers. He found a chair in the corner of my study and sank into it, casting me a puzzled look when Mr. Dalton turned his attention to his coffee.

  Ordinarily, Whyborne knew little of my cases, other than what I could divulge without betraying my client’s confidences. But he had assisted me on several, and the story Dalton stammered out on the doorstep made me think this might be one where Whyborne’s particular talents could come in useful.

  I took a seat behind my desk and took out a pencil and pad of paper. “Now, Mr. Dalton, if you could repeat what brings you to my door—a bit slower, if you please.”

  He flushed but bobbed his head. “Yessir, Mr. Flaherty. In the summer months, I worked as a groundskeeper for Mrs. . . . Er, one of your former clients, sir.” He offered me an apologetic look.

  “It’s of no matter. Continue.”

  “I heard her through the open window one day while I cut the grass beneath, saying as how you’d found something stolen from the family. It’s how I knew to come to you.” He took a quick sip from his coffee. “I don’t have much money, but whatever I’ve got, it’s yours. Just bring my Reggie back.”

  “Reggie is your son,” I confirmed.

  He nodded miserably. “Just a little shy of his tenth birthday, he is. I went to the police, and they went down to the carousel but didn’t find anything. Said he just must have run away. But he wouldn’t! He’s a good boy!”

  “I believe you.” Whatever had happened, the man was clearly frantic with fear for his child. “How long has he been gone?”

  “Since sometime last night. I came in a bit late, it being Saturday and all.” No doubt he’d spent the evening at the saloon, since most laboring men only worked half days on Saturday, received their paychecks, and took them straight to the nearest bar. But perhaps my assumption wasn’t fair. “The little ones have their bed in the front room, so I stopped and gave them each a kiss goodnight, then went back to where me and the missus sleep.”

  “And Reggie was there at the time? You’re certain of it?”

  Dalton nodded tiredly. “Sometime around dawn, Timothy—he’s named after my dad—woke us up. Said Reggie’d left, but he hadn’t come back, and Tim started to get scared. We went out, and it was just as he said—the door unlocked and Reggie gone.”

  Now we arrived at the strange part of the tale. “And the carousel?”

  “You know it? Down at the pier?”

  I glanced involuntarily at Whyborne. “Yes. We know it.”

  We’d spent an afternoon on the midway when my parents came to visit. They’d still thought Whyborne merely an acquaintance, delighted I’d made a friend so far above the station of my birth.

  “Reggie loves the carousel. Talks about it all the time.” Dalton shook his head. “Even when we didn’t have the money for him to ride it, he’d go down and just watch it go ’round. Of course it’s closed now for the winter, but he said he dreamed about it. Every night. Said it called to him.”

  “Called to him?” Whyborne’s brows drew together, and his lovely eyes narrowed.

  “Yes, sir. Just a childish fancy, I’m sure. But that’s where he told his brother he was going last night. Only the police didn’t find him there, and now they’ve decided he must’ve run off or gotten on one of the ships or heaven only knows what.” Dalton blinked rapidly. “Please, Mr. Flaherty, I’ll do anything, pay anything, to get him back. I know I can’t possibly afford your time, but there’s got to be something I can do. Please!”

  “I think you’ll find my fee surprisingly affordable,” I said, tearing off a scrap of paper. “How many children did you say you have?” I added casually.

  “Just the two boys, as lived past birth.” He looked down for a moment. “We had a girl, too, but she worked the canning factory. There was an accident.”

  Life hadn’t gone easily for the family. But perhaps I could help change their luck. I wrote down a number and passed it to him. “My daily fee. Do you find it reasonable?”

  “Yes, sir,” Dalton said, seeming a little bewildered. “But are you sure this is right?”

  “Quite sure.” I rose to my feet. “Now, Mr. Dalton, our first task is to return to your apartment. I’d like to speak with your wife and son. From there, we’ll start our search.” I paused by his chair and put a hand to his shoulder. “I swear to you, we won’t rest until we’ve discovered your son’s fate.”

  Although it didn’t snow as often in Widdershins as in other parts of New England, a thin layer of white covered the ground today, turning to slush on the sidewalks and roads. On the way to the tenement, I ducked into the nearest grocery, emerging a few minutes later with a bag of taffy.

  “What is that for?” Whyborne asked.

  “A little trick I picked up with the Pinkertons,” I said evasively. Dalton seemed impressed, Whyborne less so.

  As Dalton said, the family lived in a small, two-room apartment on the third floor. The smells of cooking cabbage and garlic saturated the air, accompanied with
the usual whiff of sweat and piss indicating too many people living in too small a space. Still, the Daltons must have been doing well compared to their neighbors, to have only four people in two rooms and no boarders.

  We stepped around a man slouched unmoving on the stairwell. “Is he all right?” Whyborne asked in alarm. “Should we do something?”

  I suppressed a sigh and caught his sleeve. If we stopped to help every wretch in this place, we’d never find Reggie. “Come along.”

  The stair let out onto a narrow, dark hallway. A very young boy stood in a doorway, wearing only a ragged shirt. He stared at us with huge eyes as we passed by. Whyborne stared back, aghast. Even though he’d left his family’s High Street mansion a decade ago, his exposure to the harsher side of life remained distinctly limited.

  It could be useful, at times, I had to admit. But this afternoon I had no wish for him to play the rube or distract from the investigation. Tugging on his sleeve again, I whispered, “Don’t look so horrified. These people have pride, no different than anyone else.”

  We passed by a door, behind which a couple shouted at each other in Gaelic. If I’d ever known the mother tongue, I’d left it behind in New York when I’d boarded the orphan train with my brothers.

  Dalton opened the next door down. “Maddie, Tim, we’ve got company.”

  We stepped inside after him. The tiny outer room contained a worn bed lounge, two chairs, a large washtub, an iron stove, and a table serving the purpose of both desk and dining table. Although crowded, everything was neatly arranged and the floor scrubbed to a standard of cleanliness seldom seen in such surroundings.

  A woman and boy sat on the bed lounge. Mrs. Dalton appeared much younger than her husband, her clothing worn but carefully mended. Her son snuggled tight under her arm, his freckled face drawn with misery.