Samantha Smart

by Maxwell Puggle

  “Ocean levels began to rise shortly after global temperatures,” The Professor continued reading. “At an average of sixteen inches per year, the level has risen an estimated 8.8 meters since November of 1981. Despite massive emergency efforts to build walls, dams and breakwaters, most coastal cities were flooded considerably by 1997, including the U.S. Cities of New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Miami, Houston, New Orleans, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Seattle, as well as several other smaller cities.”

  The Professor paused in his reading here, having noticed a symbol that directed the reader to a huge, interactive map. He pressed the button next to it, and he and Samantha watched an animation of the rising sea level superimposed on a map of the world as it had existed in 1981. Major cities of the world were labeled and indicated with red or green lights, turning red at points as the water level rose to affect that city, usually indicating serious or total flooding.

  “Jumping Jackelopes!” The Professor coughed out after some period of having held his breath.

  “No kidding,” Samantha replied. “Whatever you did, Professor, it sure was a doozy.”

  “Say again?” The Professor snapped out of his spellbound trance. “A doozy? Hmmm... yes, very American sort of expression. Hmmph. I suppose jackelopes are fairly American as well.” (At this point he was basically mumbling to himself) “A doozy. I assume you mean that whatever I did had a far more profound effect than even I could have imagined. And that certainly is the truth... Samantha, all I did was go to a newsstand, buy a paper and a cup of coffee and come back to the museum! Unfortunately, the way time seems to work, I suppose I could have unknowingly kicked a pebble on the street which rolled down a drain, struck a rat right between the eyes which angered it enough to run out of its hole, bite a German shepherd in Central Park, giving it rabies and causing it to become mad enough, weeks later, to run into the street, causing an accident that killed the world’s foremost... tree expert. Hmmm... perhaps there’s something to that, Samantha... ”

  “You mean, maybe we should go back and make sure you don’t kick any pebbles?”

  “Well,” The Professor said in a frustrated tone, “Unfortunately, I haven’t figured out how to be that accurate with the time device yet. I’m afraid we’ll have to do as much research as possible on this end first. But–the tree expert. That might be something to look for.”

  The two decided to go back down to the basement after examining a few more relevant exhibits. To their dismay, the museum’s computer database had been updated that year, and they had decided that whatever ‘tree expert’ they were looking for had probably died before 1973 or else had never been born at all in this timeline. The Professor looked up from the terminal they were seated at with a blank look, then broke into a large smile.

  “Good thing I never trusted computers,” he said, springing up from his chair and opening a door at the rear of his office (which he had to move several piles of things to get to). Polly was awakened from a pleasant nap by his shuffling and trotted over to sniff around the area of excitement.

  Behind the door was a sizable room of bookshelves from floor to ceiling, an impressive personal library that they both prayed fell within the unaffected zone of time displacement. Professor Smythe skimmed titles with his finger, circling the room at least twice before settling on Who’s Who In Botany, Forestry and Horticulture, 1997. The Professor shot Samantha a wink and pulled the rather large volume from the shelf, lugging it back to his desk before opening it.

  “What we want, I think, is an entry for lodgepole pine diseases,” he said, paging through the index. “Or at least pine diseases in general–ah, here we are–” The Professor looked a bit dismayed; Samantha could see the index entry over his shoulder and noted at least thirty page references–some for multiple pages.

  “Oh dear,” The Professor sighed. “We may have a bit of reading to do Samantha.” He closed the book and handed it to her. “You read this one–I have another copy–though it’s the 1993 version. I think it will probably still have our man in it, though, or–our... woman.”

  Hours passed in the windowless office, the two immersed in reports on tree diseases. Polly had begun to get antsy and Samantha decided to take her for a walk, tucking her neatly into her backpack to smuggle her out of the museum. She left The Professor to his research after borrowing ten dollars for a taxi-boat to and from Belvedere Castle, the only grassy area left above water for some ways and hence a favorite dog walk. It was a short and relatively cheap boat ride, and Samantha hadn’t had any trouble flagging down a boat-cab.

  A sort of dock-like area had been built into the high ground the castle sat on, which was known to New Yorkers as Vista Rock, where she and Polly got off to start their walk. There wasn’t all that much grass about the place, it being mostly rock, either natural (Vista Rock) or man-made (Belvedere Castle). Off in the distance Samantha could see the obelisk known as Cleopatra’s Needle, of which a good sixty feet (at least) still protruded from the water that was Manhattan’s new ‘base level.’ Even further out she could see the upper floors of the Metropolitan Museum Of Art, which she had been to several times and hoped had been salvaged as well as the Natural History Museum had been. She thought it would be a terrible loss if much of its priceless collection of art from around the world had been ruined.

  Polly was unhappy about being kept on the leash, but Samantha had had enough mischief from the terrier for one week already, and so would not let her loose. She did, however, run around a little bit with her dog, who was after all young and energetic and needed a healthy bit of exercise and play. Samantha enjoyed the running about too, though she quickly became hot and sweaty in this sweltering July-like October they were having. Global warming, she decided, was for the birds.

  When they returned, (having rang The Professor’s phone again from security), they found the gray-haired Englishman feverishly scribbling down Mayan translations from his computer screen. Polly lay down, panting, in her corner while Samantha attempted a conversation with The Professor. It seemed, however, that “Shhhh!” was the only reply she was going to get for a while, so she went into the bathroom across the hall to wash up a bit, feeling sticky from the hot sun and exercise. She had developed a real yearning for an actual shower, not having had one for days and growing less and less satisfied with her sink-baths. She was fairly sure there weren’t any shower-equipped bathrooms in the museum, but she vowed that she would find one somewhere soon as she scrubbed behind her ears with the last bit of pink liquid hand soap.

  Professor Smythe practically assaulted her as she strolled back into his office, waving papers at her and babbling too fast for her to understand.

  “Slow down, Professor,” Samantha said, drying her hair with a Peruvian blanket that was probably worth thousands of dollars.

  “Sorry, sorry. Sorry, Samantha, but listen–I found our tree expert, I think. In both editions there are entries for a man named Dr. Elliot Bergen. He supposedly isolated and crafted a cure for an extremely aggressive fungoid tree disease in 1974, a disease found in lodgepole pines. But–when I put his name into the museum’s computer database, which we have established is continuous with this alternate timeline, I get nothing. He doesn’t exist. At least, not as any person of renown in history or the sciences.”

  Samantha scratched her head, digesting the new information. “So what next, then?” she asked.

  “Well,” The Professor continued, looking at one of his papers, “I have all his information. He was born Elliot Vincent Bergen, in 1936 in Chapel Hill, North Carolina to parents Vincent Bergen of Atlanta, Georgia and Violet Edelstein of New York, New York. His father was (not surprisingly) a professor of biochemistry at the University of North Carolina and his mother a published writer of poetry and short stories. He would be seventy-five years old this year.

  “I’ve done some further research,” The Professor cleared his throat. “In this timeline, there does in fact exist an author of poetry and short stories, in New York C
ity, a Violet Edelstein. According to the museum’s database she is still alive. Ninety-six years old, Samantha.”

  “So, you think we should find her–this Dr. Bergen’s mother... what do you think she could tell us?” Samantha wondered.

  “Well, for one thing,” Professor Smythe went on, “She could tell us whether or not she ever married a man named Vincent Bergen, and if they in fact had a child. That could help us a lot to narrow down the time-area that’s been so largely affected by whatever my error was.”

  “I see,” Samantha chimed in, catching on. “So, if they did get married and have Elliot, we know something happened to him, but if they were never married or never had him, then we know something must’ve happened to them.”

  “Precisely,” The Professor beamed. “Now, Samantha–I have an address for you here–it’s for Ms. Edelstein’s agent. I’ve made an appointment for you at three o’clock this afternoon to meet with him under the pretext of some school report you’re doing... ”

  “School report?” Samantha interrupted, a bit alarmed.

  “Just make something up,” The Professor went on. “School report, school paper interview, I don’t care–we just need to get to Violet Edelstein and ask her about Vincent Bergen and any children they may or may not have had.”

  “But those are pretty personal questions, Professor!” Samantha protested.

  “Samantha, do you ever want to see your home again?” The Professor asked sternly. “I, for one, would really like to. And I would like very much to see your mother again, as I know you would as well. Just come up with some more innocent questions and slip in the bits about marriage and children, all right?” Samantha swallowed and nodded. “Good–now get along then; here’s forty dollars and the address,” he thrust some money and a bit of paper into her hands. “I’ve written down some essential questions you may want to ask her. You’ll have to leave Polly here for this one, I’m afraid, but don’t worry, I’ll be here trying to get this befuddling Mayan time machine to work a bit more accurately; I believe we’re going to be needing it soon.”

  Polly looked forlorn as Samantha left, but The Professor was right–she had caused quite enough trouble already in this timeline and would most certainly not be welcome in the offices of some esteemed literary agent. It was almost two o’clock, so Samantha had to rush a bit as the agent’s office was downtown in Chelsea. She read the address, at Seventh Avenue and Twenty-sixth streets, to the driver of a taxi-boat she managed to flag down, and she was off like lightning to explore more of the freakishly changed cityscape.

  The sun felt good on her back now, and Samantha took in the sights around her as they sped down to Columbus Circle and onto Broadway, which cut diagonally over to Seventh Avenue. It seemed to her that overall there were far fewer boats in the city than there had been cars, and as a result of this it appeared that all ‘one-way’ rules had been abolished, so that any boat could go either way on any given ‘street.’

  Most of midtown Manhattan’s skyscrapers seemed perfectly intact if thirteen feet shorter–they all still looked monstrous to Samantha. Seventh Avenue had a more open feel as they turned onto it, though going past Thirty-fourth Street she still felt tiny in the shadow of the Empire State Building on their right, while she wondered if trains even still ran through Penn Station to their left. There were huge plastic sidewalks floating all around the perimeter of Madison Square Garden, and homeless people were, sadly, evident in numbers huddled up there under wood-free newspapers and old blankets. At least, she thought to herself, New York’s become quite a bit warmer. It was the only thought she’d had since the world got all strange that made this timeline seem better–for some–than the one she and The Professor were trying hard to restore.

  The taxi-boat pulled up on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and let her out onto a plastic sidewalk. Samantha paid the driver and thanked him, then walked to a store on the corner. It was still only half past two by her watch and she was hungry, not having eaten that day. She purchased a huge turkey sandwich at the deli which she figured she’d eat half of and save half for The Professor. She also bought a pint of orange juice and a bag of dog food for Polly, which she stuffed neatly into her backpack.

  Walking back outside, Samantha found a little bench and sat down to eat her half-sandwich and drink some orange juice. She found it quite strange that the juice carton read “Georgia Orange Juice” instead of “Florida Orange Juice,” but then remembered the interactive map at the museum which had showed large portions of Florida to now be underwater. Georgia, she mused as she licked mayonnaise from her lips, must be the new place to grow oranges. She hoped that this hadn’t affected the traditional Georgia peach crop too heavily, as she had always been a big fan of peaches.

  Just as Samantha was packing up the half-sandwich she was saving for The Professor, a young man walked around the corner and asked if he could share the bench with her. She almost choked on her last bite of turkey when she looked up at him–it was Jordan Anderson from Heatwavvve, her favorite boy-band in the whole world.

  “S-Sure! I mean, absolutely–by all means!” she fumbled with her words, totally awestruck. “Would you, um, like some... sandwich? Or some orange juice?” she offered. She knew she was totally blushing. This was unbelievable–entirely at random, Jordan Anderson had come and sat down next to her on a bench. She wished she had a picture of the moment to show to her friend Brianna–Samantha knew she would totally flip out.

  “Thanks, but I don’t eat meat,” Jordan replied, smiling his million-dollar smile. “I feel like it slows me down, and I have a very active life.”

  I know, Samantha thought. She struggled to think of something to say that would keep the conversation going.

  “So–aren’t you in that group Heatwavvve? I mean, I’m sorry but you–you look almost exactly like–”

  “Jordan Anderson?” Jordan interrupted. “Yeah, that’s me. Do you know the band?”

  “I–I actually have every one of your songs. I–” Samantha broke into a nervous giggle, “I’m actually kind of amazed to be meeting you. I have... a huge poster of you... on my wall, or, I, um, used to.”

  “Used to?” Jordan sounded slightly surprised. “Have you outgrown Heatwavvve already?”

  “No... no! I still love Heatwavvve. I just–well, I kind of had to... move recently, and I don’t really have any of my stuff.”

  “Oh, well–that’s a shame. Hey, tell you what,” the gorgeous dreamboat said, flashing that smile and patting her on the back, “my manager’s office is two blocks from here. If you want you can walk over there with me and I’ll give you a brand new poster, signed by the whole group.”

  “Wow, that’d be awesome,” said Samantha, still in dreamland.

  “Come on, then,” Jordan began, getting up and lightly taking her arm to lead her. She let him pull her to her feet and began floating along like a scarf tied to the singer’s arm, his touch sending waves of pleasure-electricity through her body. They made it about a block before she even thought to look at her watch, though when she did it alarmed her.

  “Oh, wait–” she began, trying to stop. Her watch read 2:55. “Jordan, I–I’m sorry, I can’t actually go right now.”

  “Aw, come on,” he continued pulling her, “it’ll just take a minute! It’s right up here... ”

  “I–no,” Samantha pulled backward, halting their progress. “I can’t Jordan, I have to be somewhere, like now.”

  Jordan’s grip tightened on her arm and he continued to protest, saying again that it would ‘only take a minute.’ At last Samantha pulled her arm free of his hand, almost yelling at him.

  “I have to go.”

  “All right!” he replied, putting up his hands and looking around somewhat shiftily to see if people were watching them. Then he calmed down a bit and apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Samantha,” he began, trying to look cool and collected again.

  “How,” Samantha asked looking straight into his eyes, “did you know my name?�
�

  “Samantha,” he continued, looking strange and nervous again. “You told me. Just now.”

  “Whatever,” Samantha replied, feeling that something weird had just happened but needing to get moving. “I have to go, Jordan, but if you want, I, um, I walk my dog every day around noon at Belvedere Castle in the park, uptown.”

  “Okay,” Jordan smiled his winning smile again. “Well, maybe I’ll see you there sometime. I’ll try to bring you a poster.”

  “That’d be great. Bye, Jordan, it was, ah, nice meeting you.”

  “Yeah, you too. Take care.”

  Odd, Samantha thought to herself as she turned around and headed back towards Twenty-sixth Street. Had she told Jordan her name? She couldn’t remember; she felt, in fact, like the whole conversation had been a strange dream. It was like he had been, well, was the only person other than The Professor who had existed in both the normal timeline and the new, altered one that she was walking through now.

  She shook her head to clear it of confusion and dreaminess. It didn’t matter right now–she was at the door to the building whose address matched the one on the piece of paper given to her by The Professor. She scanned the board at the entrance with her eyes and found the name she was looking for–Alan Horrowitz And Associates–and noted the call number next to it, 060. Her fingers dialed the number on the phone-like keypad and a voice answered.

  “Alan Horrowitz and Associates,” it said in a bored, nasally voice. “Who’s calling, please?”

  Samantha cleared her throat and thought quickly, spewing out the best thing she could think of.

  “Hi, this is Samantha Smart–I’m here to interview Ms. Edelstein for my, uh, school newspaper, the... Roslyn High Examiner... ”

  “One moment please,” the voice replied. This was followed by a long silence. After what seemed like an eternity of staring at the little metal speaker, the buzzer buzzed to let her in. She almost didn’t snap out of her daze in time but caught the door and opened it just before the sound stopped.