by Dan Gutman
I knew she would have liked to stick around, but she couldn’t bear to watch me disappear. She told me to do everything Dr. Wright said, then hugged us both, kissed me on the forehead, told me to be careful, and went upstairs.
I sat on the couch, and Dr. Wright sat down next to me. He took a deep breath.
“Nervous?” I asked, turning off the light next to me.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I never did anything like this before. Will it hurt?”
“No,” I told him. “It’s sort of like going to sleep and waking up on a different planet.”
It was strange to see Dr. Wright look so worried. Here was a guy who has opened up people’s skulls and performed delicate surgery on their brains, but a little trip back to 1920 had given him the willies.
“Where will we end up?” he asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” I told him. “I usually land somewhere near the player on the card. But then I have to go find him.”
“Do I need to do anything?”
“Just hold my hand,” I said. “Close your eyes and relax. I’ll do all the work.”
I took his hand. It was sweaty. With my other hand, I picked up the Carl Mays card from the coffee table. I closed my eyes and thought about New York City. 1920. August.
It’s funny how much you hear when you just stop talking and close your eyes. A car turned the corner around the block, and a plane flew overhead. The cicadas outside were chanting with the joy of being aboveground for the first time in 17 years. The house creaked.
After a minute or so, I felt the first stirrings of that tingling sensation in my fingertips that I had come to know so well. The buzzy feeling slid up my arm. I resisted the temptation to scratch it. Then it swept across my body to my other hand, which was holding Dr. Wright’s.
“It’s happening, isn’t it?” I heard him mumble.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “It’s happening.”
And then, we vanished.
18
Ruckus in the ER
WHEN I OPENED MY EYES, DR. WRIGHT AND I WERE standing outside a wooden door with a thin slot in it at about eye level. I turned around and immediately recognized where we were. It was the same area I’d landed the first time I went to 1920.
“Where are we?” Dr. Wright asked groggily.
“New York City,” I replied. “Exactly where we need to be.”
The sun was low in the sky. It had to be late afternoon. I knocked on the door, and the slot opened. A pair of eyes looked back at me.
“What’s the password?” the man asked gruffly.
“Woodrow,” I said, and the slot slid shut.
“How do you know the password?” asked Dr. Wright.
“I’m a regular here.”
The door opened. The guy nodded to us and went off somewhere. Behind him was a lady, and I recognized her right away. She was that nutty woman who’d introduced me to Babe Ruth. What was her name? Oh, yeah, Addie. Sweet Adeline.
“Stoshie!” she gushed, hugging me. “I thought you went to the Polo Grounds with Babe. Whatsa matter? Didja forget somethin’? Say, who’s your handsome friend?”
“I did go to the game,” I explained, “and then…I went home. And then I came back. Sort of. With my friend here, Dr. Wright.”
“Hel-looo, Doctor!” Addie said. “You look like Mr. Right to me! I’d take some of your medicine any day.”
“You’re drunk,” Dr. Wright said.
“And you’re cute, sugar,” she replied.
“What time is it?” I asked before things could get out of hand.
“Almost six,” Addie said. “Where’s the fire, for crying out loud? Why don’t you boys come in for a while? Maybe the doc can give me a checkup from the neck up.”
“Look,” I told her, “this is gonna sound crazy, but this is an emergency. We came from the future. We live in the twenty-first century. You’ve got to believe me. We need your help.”
“You say you’re from the future?” she said, laughing, “And you think I’m drunk?”
“Forget about her, Joseph,” Dr. Wright said. “The game started at three thirty. If it’s six o’clock now, it already happened. Chapman has been hit. The game is over.”
“Listen to me,” I said to Addie. “A player on the Cleveland Indians is going to die. Dr. Wright is the only one who can save him. We need to get to the hospital right away.”
“Which hospital?” she asked.
Huh! Good question. I didn’t know which hospital they would bring Chapman to. It hadn’t occurred to me that a city as big as New York probably had lots of hospitals.
“St. Lawrence Hospital!” said Dr. Wright.
“You boys are crazy,” Addie said, “but I like you. Come on.”
We followed her outside. It must have been rush hour, because the street was filled with lots of old-time cars zipping past, pumping out smoky exhaust. Dr. Wright put up his hand to hail a taxi, but none of them stopped.
“Here,” Addie said, “let me do it.”
She went to the curb, held up one hand in the air, and used the other to hike up her dress a few inches above her knee. A taxi immediately screeched to a halt.
“Get in!” she said, and the three of us piled into the backseat of the cab.
“457 West 163rd Street, and step on it!” Dr. Wright hollered to the driver. “St. Lawrence Hospital. It’s about a half mile from the Polo Grounds.”
“I like your style, Doc!” Addie said, as the cab peeled away from the curb.
“How do you know which hospital to go to?” I asked Dr. Wright. “And where did you get the address?”
“I googled it,” he replied.
“You what?” asked Addie.
“Never mind,” he said. “I bet there’s something on the news already about Ray Chapman getting beaned. Driver, can you turn on the radio, please?”
“Turn on the what?” the driver asked.
“Oh, forget it.”
“These fellas come from the future,” Addie said, giggling.
“I don’t care where they come from,” said the driver. “They better pay me in the present.”
He was weaving in and out of traffic like a lunatic. The car had no seat belts, and the three of us were bouncing back and forth across the backseat like Ping-Pong balls. It wasn’t long before we pulled up outside the hospital. Dr. Wright and I didn’t have any money, so Addie gave the driver some coins. We jumped out of the cab and ran to the front entrance.
“Perhaps you two should wait out here,” Dr. Wright said, his hand on the door.
“Nothin’ doin’,” said Addie. “I got you here. I’m comin’ in.”
“That goes double for me,” I said.
“All right,” Dr. Wright said, “but just…be cool.”
“Why?” Addie asked. “It’s hot out.”
We rushed over to the reception desk. There was a woman sitting there wearing old-lady glasses. She looked up at us pleasantly.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Dr. Wright, “can you please tell me which room Ray Chapman is in?”
“The baseball player?” she said. “They wheeled him into the emergency room about 15 minutes ago. Poor fellow. But, Doctor, these people with you won’t be allowed—”
“Let’s go!” Dr. Wright barked.
We followed the EMERGENCY ROOM signs, running down the zigzag hallways behind Dr. Wright. I was completely out of breath. Finally, he pushed through the door that opened into the waiting area of the emergency room.
It was a somber scene in there. A bunch of the Indians, still in their baseball uniforms, were gathered in small groups, whispering to each other. Their arms were on each other’s shoulders.
I recognized Tris Speaker in the corner. He was trying to console a sobbing woman with light brown hair. She looked like she was in her twenties, and she looked like she might be pregnant. I thought I recognized her from the photo in Ray Chapman’s locker. It had to be his wife.
“Ray’s gonna die!” she moaned, her hea
d on Speaker’s shoulder. “I just know he’s gonna die!”
“Not if I can help it!” announced Dr. Wright.
Everyone in the emergency room turned and looked at him. Dr. Wright rushed over to the nurse behind the desk.
“Do you work here?” she asked.
“I’m Dr. Louis Wright. I must see Ray Chapman right away!”
“Please take a seat,” the nurse told him. “As soon as his doctor is available, I’ll ask him to step in and speak with you. He is currently examining the patient, trying to determine the best course of action.”
“The best course of action is to perform surgery immediately!” Dr. Wright thundered. “That man is going to die unless I am allowed to operate right away!”
The nurse rolled her eyes, like she was sick of dealing with doctors.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.
I was afraid that Dr. Wright might just bust down the door, but a doctor came out right at that moment. He had a stethoscope around his neck and a name tag that read DR. KOLANDER.
“What’s going on out here?” he demanded.
“I’m Ray Chapman’s personal physician,” Dr. Wright lied. “I’m visiting from Cleveland, and I know exactly what happened. I must examine Mr. Chapman immediately.”
“Um-hmm,” said Dr. Kolander. “And who is this young lady?”
“She’s our friend,” I volunteered.
“Quiet, Stosh,” said Dr. Wright.
“Charmed,” Addie said, extending her hand gracefully. “The name is Adeline. Like the song. But you can call me Addie.”
“Do you always bring kids and floozies with you when you examine patients, Doctor?” sneered Dr. Kolander.
“Hey, I ain’t no floozy!” yelled Addie, and she slapped the doctor in the face. He rubbed his cheek for a moment before continuing.
“Mr. Chapman is going to be fine,” Dr. Kolander said slowly. “We are examining him very carefully, and we will make the decision whether or not to operate in a few hours. So if you folks will just be patient—”
“Look,” Dr. Wright said, getting into the other doctor’s face, “Ray Chapman’s skull is fractured! He has an epidural hematoma. Do you even know what that means? His brain is swelling as we speak! If we don’t relieve the pressure on his brain right away, he’s going to die no matter what else you do!”
“You certainly know a lot about this patient,” Dr. Kolander said, “considering that you haven’t examined him since the injury.”
“I didn’t want to get into this,” Dr. Wright said, “but I guess I have to. This boy and I come from the future. We live in the twenty-first century. Medical science will advance dramatically in the next hundred years. I know some things you couldn’t possibly even dream about. I have researched this case. I can save Ray Chapman’s life, if you will just give me the chance.”
Dr. Kolander looked at me, then at Dr. Wright, unimpressed.
“Why are you sweating, Doctor?” asked Dr. Kolander.
“We rushed over here,” I volunteered.
Dr. Kolander took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it across the top of Dr. Wright’s forehead. A line of dark skin appeared.
“Just as I suspected,” Dr. Kolander said. “You’re a Negro posing as a white man! Nurse, please call security.”
“That’s it,” Addie said as she ran for the door. “I’m outta here! I can’t afford to be arrested again.”
Dr. Wright wiped some of the makeup off his face with his sleeve.
“The color of my skin is irrelevant!” he yelled. “Do you want to save Chapman’s life or not? His brain has been injured on both sides. There is a rupture of the middle meningeal artery. We need to put in a fiber optic pressure monitor; and we need to control blood flow to the brain, blood pressure, and oxygenation. I have medicine in my bag that will reduce the swelling and metabolism of his brain. He needs a hemicraniectomy. I can do that. You can’t. Are you going to assist me, or are you just going to stand there like a fool?”
Dr. Kolander stood there for a moment, like a fool.
“You’re delusional,” he said. Then he yelled, “Security! We have an insane colored man and a boy in the emergency room.”
The door flew open. But it wasn’t a security guard. It was a guy in a Yankees uniform.
“Who are you?” asked Dr. Kolander.
“That’s Carl Mays!” I said.
All the Indians who had been standing around watching the argument turned and glared at Mays.
“What are you doing here?” asked Tris Speaker.
“Is Chapman okay?” Mays asked. “I feel terrible about what happened. If he dies, I’m gonna quit baseball.”
“You shoulda quit yesterday,” one of the Indians said. “It’s too late now.”
“This isn’t a good place for you, Mays,” said Tris Speaker. “Not now.”
At that moment, the door flew open again, and two security guards rushed in with nightsticks.
“What’s the problem, Dr. Kolander?” asked one of them.
“These two men are causing a ruckus,” he replied.
“You’re wasting valuable time!” shouted Dr. Wright as he unzipped his black bag and started taking out things. “Here, I’ll prove it to you. This is a medicine that will essentially put the brain to sleep. And this is a trephine. It’s a tool we use to cut open the skull.”
“It’s a knife!” yelled the nurse. “He’s got a knife!”
“Take them away!” Dr. Kolander said to the security guards. “Put them in the insane ward!”
One of the security guards grabbed Dr. Wright from behind, and the other one grabbed me. He held the nightstick against my neck and yanked my arm behind my back.
“Let’s go, sonny,” he grunted.
As he dragged me away, I saw Dr. Wright reach into his bag and pull out that manila envelope he had put in there. He tossed it to Dr. Kolander.
19
The Future
I COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT WAS HAPPENING. A GUY WITH arms that were thicker than my legs had wrapped a straitjacket around me and tied it tight. Then he picked me up, hoisted me over his shoulder, and carried me down the hallway.
“Dr. Wright!” I shouted.
“Shut yer trap!” barked the goon who was carrying me. “Before it fills with flies.”
He carried me down the winding hall until he passed a sign that said INSANE WARD. Then he pulled open an unmarked door and dumped me on the floor.
“See you in the next century!” he said with a snort. He slammed the heavy door behind him as he left.
Not again!
I looked around. This time it wasn’t a room. It was more like a cell. Dank. Dark. No furniture. No nothing.
A minute later the door opened, startling me. The goon was back. This time he was carrying Dr. Wright over his shoulder. He threw him down roughly.
“I brought you some company,” he said to me, “in case you get lonely. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
He left, slamming the door. A key clicked in the lock.
Dr. Wright stood up and leaned his shoulder against the wall.
“Padded cell,” he said. “Nice.”
“Why did they put us in here?” I asked.
“So we can’t smash our heads against the wall and try to kill ourselves,” he replied.
“People really do that?”
“Sure,” Dr. Wright told me, “if they’re frustrated enough.”
“But this is a hospital,” I said. “They’re supposed to make people better.”
“Mental illness wasn’t understood very well a century ago,” said Dr. Wright. “They didn’t know what to do with insane people. So they locked them up, like criminals.”
“We’re not insane!” I said.
“They think we are,” Dr. Wright said. “And who can blame them? We said we came from the future. A crazy black man wearing makeup was telling them how to perform brain surgery. No wonder they thought we were nuts.”
I had to laugh. And I realized
that our situation wasn’t actually as desperate as it appeared. All we had to do was get the pack of new baseball cards out of my back pocket. We could use one to blow out of there and go back to our own time.
The only problem was that my hands were wrapped tightly. I couldn’t move them. We positioned ourselves back-to-back so Dr. Wright could try to get at my back pocket. But his straitjacket was longer than mine, and he could barely get his fingertips out. He turned around and tried to untie my straitjacket with his teeth.
“Hurry up!” I said as he struggled. “Somebody could come in at any second!”
“I…can’t…do it,” Dr. Wright said, grunting from the effort. He was sweating. Finally, he tumbled to the floor, exhausted. He lay there for a minute, panting.
It finally sunk in. We could be stuck here. Somebody would eventually find my baseball cards and take them away. There would be no way to get back to our time. We would have to live our lives starting in 1920…in an insane asylum.
I did the math in my head. If I was 13 years old in 1920, I’d be 93 in 2000. Hardly anybody lives that long. What was the life expectancy in 1920, anyway? Probably 60 or so.
I wouldn’t live to see the millennium. I wouldn’t live long enough to see my own birth.
I wish I had listened to my mom all the times she’d warned me about the dangers of time traveling. Now I would never see her again.
My chest tightened. Tears were welling up in my eyes.
“It’s my fault,” I choked.
“No,” Dr. Wright said. “I’m the adult. I should have anticipated all the possibilities.”
It didn’t matter whose fault it was. We were stuck in 1920, and we were going to die sometime in the twentieth century. Nobody from our time would ever know what happened to us.
Maybe I could write a note, I thought. I would write a note to my parents and tell them how much I loved them. I’d find a way to make sure the note got to them in the future. I could take it to Louisville and hide it in the house where I would grow up and—
No, that was crazy. They might get the note before I was born. It wouldn’t mean anything to them. Or the previous owner of the house might find my note and throw it away.
