Her mind turned to her son James, who was beginning to plan his own experiment a few years from now. She thought about how he’d insinuated himself into her journey, having convinced Professor Carver to let him go back to England six months into her stay to check up on her, and felt a sudden chill remembering the dangerous repercussions of that act. Thinking of it sobered her toward this new venture. Evie Johnston thought it would be a fun adventure to get dressed up in period clothes and pop into the past, check out some ancestors, maybe attend a ball, pretend to be goddamned Scarlett O’Hara gadding about in the antebellum north, but heaven forbid something would go wrong. If she didn’t go with Evie, someone else would have to, and Cassandra was the most experienced among her colleagues. She felt like the trip was becoming inevitable. The girl was obviously intent on it happening if she was willing to use one of her priceless pieces as a bargaining chip.
Cassandra headed over to the nearest Cambridge subway station, and in five minutes was exiting within a block of her townhouse on Mount Vernon Street. She went in, changed her clothes and gave Nick a call.
When she walked into the restaurant, she spotted him sitting at their usual table overlooking the harbor. His face lit up when he saw her, and she smiled in return.
He stood to greet her. “Hi!”
She could see the expectation on his face. They kissed lightly on the lips, and she appreciated anew his full, welcoming mouth. They sat down and she reviewed his familiar features: warm brown eyes, high cheekbones, and thick gray hair, worn long, a little past his ears.
The waiter blustered up to the table. His face was flushed, and a few strands of what remained of his hair had blown out of place. “Cassandra! Nick! How are you! So good to see you!”
“Hi, Henry!” they chimed.
“Two cups of clam chowder and a bottle of Montepulciano, am I right?”
“You got it,” said Nick. “Right?”
Cassandra laughed. “Sure.”
Henry hurried away with the order. Cassandra breathed in the smell of fresh bread baking, and the salty tang of clams steaming in the kitchen. A fire crackled in a nearby fireplace and lit up their faces. On a Monday night, the restaurant wasn’t busy. The few couples in the room murmured to each other over the clank of silverware and china.
“It was cold today,” Nick commented.
“Yes, but I didn’t mind it.” Cassandra knew he was waiting for her news.
“You look beautiful. Have you been wearing that all day?”
“No, silly, I put it on for you. I know you like me in a dress.”
Henry returned with their wine, opened and poured it, then took their main course orders and trundled off again.
“Tell me!” Nick blurted. “Tell me what the famous artist is like!”
“Well first of all,” she said, blushing slightly, “she absolutely has Ben’s eyes.”
Nick’s face fell.
“I’m sorry to have to say that, but it’s true. Anyway, it doesn’t matter; it was just interesting to see that a characteristic like that could be carried down through so many generations.”
“Yes, I agree,” he replied.
“Also, she’s even more beautiful in person than in any images you’ve seen.”
“Really?”
“I’m afraid I was pretty rude to her, though.”
“You were? Why?”
“Because I don’t like the idea of the rich and privileged getting to do anything they want.”
“Forgive me if I take her side, being rich and privileged myself—”
“But you don’t take advantage of it. She even offered me her most iconic painting to convince me, the self-portrait.”
“What?!”
“I didn’t accept it. I gave it to Elton to give back to her.”
“Geez. So, has the project been approved by the board?”
“Well, no, not yet. Carver needs my decision before he presents it to them.”
“But why is it up to you? I mean, I’m sure Carver wanted your input, but why is it your decision?”
“Because she wants me to go with her.”
Nick and Cassandra looked at each other while Henry brought the soup. He placed it before them soundlessly, and scurried away.
Nick finally spoke. “Go with her?”
“Yes. She wants to travel to New York of 1853 to meet Ben’s daughter, Cassandra Johnston, and she wants me to go with her.”
Color drained from Nick’s face as he stared down at his soup.
“But Nick, Ben will be dead. I won’t be seeing him.”
“Oh, yeah.” His face regained its usual hue. “How soon does she want to make the journey?”
“I’d say within six months—by the spring, actually.”
His spoon stopped mid way to his mouth.
“I know, I know,” Cassandra hurried on, “it’s really soon. But obviously she’s got the bucks to make this happen. She can throw endless resources behind it.”
“I’d like to be part of the support team,” Nick uttered after he’d swallowed his mouthful of soup.
“I think Elton is hoping you will be.”
Nick inhaled deeply. “Are you really up to this? To be traveling again so soon?”
“Well, I never would have considered it before today, but now to think about seeing New York during that time period, to meet actual abolitionists, Ben’s daughter, it would be incredible! It’s just that…” She ate another spoonful of chowder.
“What?”
“I just can’t help feeling like this is some kind of bizarre whim of hers, a whim she can act on because she is who she is.”
“Well, I’m behind you, whatever you decide to do.”
She squeezed his hand across the table. “You’re the best.”
Henry returned and presented them each with a steaming plate of linguini.
“This looks great. Thank you, Henry,” said Nick with a smile. “My love,” he said, turning to Cassandra, “will you excuse me for a minute?”
Cassandra’s fork was already half-way to her mouth with a succulent clam poised on a mound of pasta.
“Please, eat,” he said.
He placed his napkin on the chair and glided away to the back of the restaurant. After firmly closing the men’s room door he looked around to make sure he was alone, then leaned against the wall, pressing his forehead against its cool marble. He took several deep breaths. Benedict Johnston, the brilliant violinist. He could see the man’s face, remember his voice. He had to remind himself that he, Nick, was the one who had gotten Cassandra in the end. He had won, not Benedict. Anyway, the man was dead. Still, he wished there were a way he could go on this journey too, just to keep an eye on things, but that didn’t seem to be part of the plan. He went to the sink and splashed his face with water, dried it instantaneously with a forceful blast of air from the dryer, and returned to the table, a smile plastered on his face.
Chapter Two
Come daybreak, we got to a river. It was big and wide, all rough water. We felt it. It was ice cold, and none of us knew how to swim, but we knew that to go north, we had to cross it. We heard dogs still a long way off, coming for us. Sam walked up river a bit and called back to us. There was a ferryman on the other side with an old, rickety-looking raft. He was a black man, so we thought it’d be safe to cross with him. We huddled on the bank in the fog and waved to him, hearing the dogs coming closer and closer. He made his way on rope and pulley, easing the raft along with a pole stuck down into the river bottom. He’d yank it up then stick it back down and push, and little by little the raft came across. It was slow going. When he reached the bank, we scuttled down its steep sides and carefully stepped onto the slab of logs that tipped and pitched dangerously. Once we were settled, the ferryman started back across. The fog had settled down low, and we couldn’t see the bank on the other side. Sam and I helped him wield his pole, and we made quicker time. The barking grew louder, and now we could hear men shouting. After a time, we could no long
er see the bank we’d come from, and it was a lucky thing, for we could hear the men and dogs running up and down near the riverbank. We spoke not a word as we rode. We were all fearful that we’d tumble into the restless water. When we got to the far bank, Sam gave the ferryman his hat for payment. The man spoke briefly to us, telling us his master had freed him when he died, and he was happy to help his brethren to freedom on this ferry that was his and his alone.
He told us that about half-mile up the river was a creek inlet. He said to follow the creek till the sun was halfway between the horizon and straight overhead. Said that nobody lived thereabouts and we oughta be safe till we get to the first house we see. Said Quakers live there. He told us to knock on the back door and say Daniel sent us. He said they were white people who hated slavery, and they would help us and to not be afraid.
From Caleb Stone’s narrative, as remembered by Dr. Cassandra Reilly
*****
Travel Journal, Evie Johnston: March 18, 2122—Dr. Reilly suggested that this would be a good time for me to start writing a travel journal, since our personal preparation for this trip is now getting underway. She said that keeping a journal like this is the scientific thing to do, and she suggested I write it out by hand (though it’s incredibly painstaking and hard to get used to) because when we get to 1853, our journals, will, of course, have to be written out.
My name will be Evelyn Bay. Obviously, I can’t use my real last name, because it would seem strange that I have the same last name as the Johnston family. My “character” is to be the traveling companion of Mrs. Cassandra Reilly, a wealthy widow from Boston. It’s incredible the detail that is being put into this journey: the research we both have to do, the designing and creation of all the perfect period clothing and accessories, the speech training, the duplication of money. I just hope it won’t all be in vain. I’m determined to find Caleb Stone.
Evie picked up the mem-stick and examined it. It looked just like an old-fashioned book-mark. She swiped it over the last two sentences of her journal entry and they disappeared. They would be recorded in the stick, and also, invisibly, on the memory paper of the journal. This is the beauty, she thought, of such “hidden” technologies. No one would ever see anything in her journal, other than what she intended them to see.
*****
Nick and Cassandra lounged in her cluttered office at MIT, discarded containers of Chinese food taking up the available surfaces. The two scientists were staring at a floating, 3D image of a New York street from the middle of the nineteenth century.
“This is Broadway from Eighth to about Twelfth Street,” said Nick, finishing off a dumpling.
“Oh yeah. I recognize Grace Church there on Tenth.”
“Mm-hm.”
The image shifted, allowing them to follow the streets as if they were actually walking on the surfaces.
“Now,” he said, “this is based partly on drawings from the time, and partly on imagination.”
They seemed to float along the avenue crammed with shops.
“Okay,” he continued, “we’re coming up to Twelfth. Now I want you to notice here—” He used a laser to point at an opening between two buildings. “There’s a little alley here. Now watch.”
He gave a command, and the image shifted to a modern scene. It was New York’s Broadway of 2122. “It’s disorienting, but even though it hardly looks like the same street, you can recognize some landmarks, I think.”
“Right, right. God, I wish Evie were here to see this. I feel this part of the preparation is crucial.”
“Well, I guess fame has its demands.”
“I would think she’d want to make these training sessions a priority if she’s so desperate to make this journey.”
“True. But the most important thing is that you be prepared. You’re the guide. So, anyway, coming back up toward Twelfth Street, you can see that where this little alley used to be there is now a store front, and inside, our portal lab.”
“I can’t wait to see it tomorrow for real. Let’s see some more of the area.”
The floating image continued up Broadway to Union Square, then wandered westward, along Fourteenth Street, down Sixth Avenue and then turned east onto Waverly Place with its solid little brick houses, well-cared-for gardens in the front, and lace curtains fluttering at the windows. It continued along Washington Square Park, down Lafayette to Fourth Street. Here and there a tenement building made an appearance. Laundry flapped from makeshift lines strung wall to wall. The scientists wandered down the holographic streets where a bakery snuggled up to a butcher shop, which neighbored a cheese shop, set up next to a cobbler. Make-believe people, appropriately attired for the era, went on about their business.
“Amazing how little the actual streets have changed,” Cassandra commented.
“It will be fascinating to experience. I envy you. I remember the thrill of trying to fit in—of passing yourself off as someone you’re not.”
“I never really thought of it as a thrill.”
“Maybe it’s better, then, that I’m not going. I supposed the thrill is not a very scientific reason for traveling.”
“Honestly,” remarked Cassandra, “I’m fairly nervous about what we may encounter. Although the layout of the city hasn’t changed since the 1850s, other things have. We’ll have to be cautious no matter what we do or where we go. It was a chaotic time in New York.”
He turned to her, his face serious. “Cassandra, promise me you will stay away from any rough areas. If you think someplace or someone seems even the slightest bit sketchy, just steer clear. I can’t have you getting curious and ending up in a compromising situation.”
“I think I’ll know what and whom to stay away from.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“We’ll be keeping a low profile.”
“But I’m sure your simply being there will attract enough attention. You’re both so beautiful.”
“Well, Evie maybe, but you overestimate my charms.”
He took her hand and kissed it. “She doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
“Now you’re just lying.” She laughed, and stood. She gathered up the empty food containers and tossed them into the recycler. “But, whatever you say.” She kissed him on the forehead. “I better get going.”
He stood up and grabbed her arm, pulling her in close. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight?”
“You know I have to get up early!”
“Okay, then I’ll go home with you.”
She laughed. “It wouldn’t make any difference. I wouldn’t get any sleep.”
“I promise I’ll let you sleep.” He kissed her neck.
“No, Nick, I can’t."
“Come on—” He tightened his embrace while continuing to kiss her neck and face.
“Nick.”
“We can do it right here,” he whispered to her.
“No!” she said, squirming out of his grasp.
He turned back to the hologram of New York City, his face hot.
“Nick, don’t be angry.”
He took a deep breath and turned back to her, forcing a smile. “I’m not. I just don’t get enough time with you. And soon you’ll be gone.” He sat back down at her desk and stared at the hologram.
“Goodnight.”
He heard her close the door. Ordering all the power in the room off, he sat in the dark, staring straight ahead at nothing.
*****
New York City was as beautiful and changeable as Cassandra had ever seen it on an April morning. Flashes of bright blue sky flirted from behind the skyscrapers, only to be overcome by clouds frantically whipping past. The scent of the ocean blew in with them, the briny odor making her think of the humans who had lived on that same island for millennia, experiencing the same smell.
It was ten o’clock. Cassandra knocked on the glass door of the portal lab, which was covered up with paper from the inside. It was the future site of an ice-cream shop the t
eam had rented for two months. As she waited, she looked up at a patch of blue and enjoyed the feeling of vertigo that comes from watching clouds race over tall buildings. The two that sandwiched the tiny shop also dwarfed the spire of the ancient Grace Church nearby at the corner of Tenth Street and Broadway. She thought of the holographic images she’d seen with Nick, and tried to shake off the unpleasant sensation he’d left her with.
Instead, she reminded herself of the stories her parents used to tell her, about when they were young and living in New York as newlyweds, when the area was mostly low-rise buildings. They liked to point out to her the locations of long, lost “mom and pop” shops, like a bookstore that was once on a nearby corner, a place they would wander into and get lost for hours in the moldering texts. Once, her mom had pointed out the spot a few blocks away where a favorite dive of a diner had been, and spoke fondly of the nights spent there, arguing the merits of socialism in a society where the foundations of capitalism were crumbling. They would stumble in after a night of drinking, Cassandra’s mother confessed, and soothe themselves with a buttery omelet stuffed with fresh vegetables and imported cheeses (and maybe a Bloody Mary for the hair of the dog). They’d find themselves caught up in discussions with local activists and artists, the neighborhood legends, and would discuss art and literature for hours. It was her dad who had shown her the spot where his favorite music shop had been nearby on Bleecker Street, a place he would always find some treasure—perhaps a bit of bootleg vinyl to add to his collection of archaic formats. Now, it seemed progress had taken its toll on the area, and those quaint experiences had mostly gone.
The Time Heiress Page 2
