“It's okay, Mr. R,” said Mike, his eyes on his shoes.
“Okay, everyone, go into the classroom.” My fingers got another shock. It was like static, but different, longer lasting. The class filed through the door. And joined a mass of people. As I followed them in, bells were clanging, sirens blowing, and the crowd wailing and screaming. I looked at the surroundings, tallish buildings, shops, and then I looked at the class, all students' eyes on me.
“Mr. R, where are we?” asked Jen Bennett.
“I don't know.” I turned from side to side, then behind me, to see if I recognized anything.
One of the men in the crowd, derbied, turned to see who was behind him. He muttered, “Washington Place.” Then I squinted across the smoky street. A sign on the building read “Triangle Waist Company” and below it, “Meyers, Cronin and Wallach”. There was too much smoke and disbelief to see more. Coughing everywhere. Eyes watering.
“Oh my God,” shouted Rose McGowan, pointing. “Look!” A woman jumped from a ninth-floor window, her dress trailing flames, like a rocket heading the wrong way. Others followed. We heard the screams as they grabbed the air to stop their falls, the crushing sounds as the bodies hit, thuds on the sidewalk. The crowd groaned and howled. Tears added to the moisture in the air. My students were crying, too.
“Where are the fire escapes?” Jen asked.
“That's what we all want to know,” said a man with a thick mustache. “It's always the same. They lock the exits and the staircase doors in that place.”
“Can't we do something?” yelled Jacob Steinberg. As we watched, firemen went in and out, heads hung, trying to be useful but failing. Their ladders were too short to reach the upper floors.
I looked at my watch: 4:58. I knew that couldn't be right but didn't have a moment to think about it. Police arrived in front of us, holding back the crowd. From the ninth floor, another fireman signaled that the fire was out. Across the street, bodies of the jumpers were lying in a chaotic jumble on the sidewalk, blood sneaking to the curb.
“Kids, let's go.” Nudging people out of the way, we headed through the crowd toward a storefront door that stood out like the rectangle I had seen with General Lee, except it was outlined in fluorescent blue. I opened the door and shepherded the kids through. But instead of the classroom or the school hallway, the door led to the front of a large building, larger than a warehouse, and another crowd.
The street corner sign told us we were at 26th Street. The jostling crowd pushed us into the building, into what appeared to be a dock, but there were no ships. The only light emanated from the upper windows and widely scattered electric bulbs ten feet above us. Some people carried lanterns. Others had flashlights. Sobs of grief gushed from the crowd. Moving further, we saw open coffins, filled with bodies, some burned beyond recognition. Murmurs engulfed the class, and a yell came from up ahead, a man, his agony loud and painful, in foreign-accented English, “That's my little girl.”
The pink sky and dark horizon told us evening had arrived. I looked at my watch again. Seven o'clock. Time must have shifted somehow when we came in here. That would explain how they had already set up a morgue. Or was it morning? I gathered the class as best I could and, shouting above the din, I told them, “Keep moving through. Get a partner and stick together. Make sure everyone is here.” I moved them all ahead of me, trying to count them. “Go to the door. Let's get out of here.” Exiting through the pandemonium, the class gathered outside. Nearby, newsboys shouted “Extra, extra. Read all about the fire at Triangle.”
“Follow me,” I said. We walked away from the crowd, led by a force I neither controlled nor understood. Finally, a door with a brightly lit outline. I twisted the handle. The hallway. “Everyone in here. NOW.” I pushed the door shut. Hard. I opened it again, and there was our classroom, empty, normal. I hurried everyone in.
Jacob Steinberg, his voice trembling, asked, “What did you do, Mr. R?”
“It looks like we walked in on the Triangle Shirtwaist Company fire. We haven't studied that yet. Listen, you guys all have your last class in a few minutes. If you can, I want you to come back for a few minutes after eighth period. It's not detention. We need to talk about this.” The class mumbled in agreement. Jen Bennett asked for a tissue. “But do us all a favor. Don't say anything to anyone yet, not even your friends. Until we talk.” Short of breath myself, I saw on their faces that they had returned from a distant place. “I know it's going to be hard, but it's only one period. Then come right back here. All right?” I examined the stunned faces, some with tears remaining. “It's really important not to say anything. I need you to do this. Please.” Reluctant okay's whispered from around the room. The bell rang. “I'll see you in forty-five minutes.”
Chapter Seven
WHAT HAPPENED? How did it happen? Why? I sat at my desk, staring out the window. Talk about confused. Lee was kind of fun, but not the Ford plant and the Battle of the Overpass. And the Triangle Fire was Horrific. What if something had happened to one of the kids? What if we couldn't get back? How did we get there?
From the middle of my desk, under a handful of student papers, a labor history book beckoned. Blazing from the first marked section was “The Triangle Fire.” I looked at the doorway and rubbed my chin. My right hand brushed my shirt pocket. An old reflex. I could use a cigarette. The classroom door jerked open. The next class began entering with none of the usual greetings; they stared instead. At me. Quieter than I'd ever seen this bunch. I ignored them.
Ashley poked his head in the door. “Are you okay, Fritz?”
“I forgot to call Linda.” While Ashley looked on, I speed dialed home. As it rang, I said to Ashley, “Gonna be a great dinner.” When Linda answered, I said, “Hi hon. I forgot to call earlier. I asked Ashley to come to dinner. OK? Good. I'll tell him.” I stuck up a thumb and focused on my silent ninth graders. They inspected me, maybe for defects.
A hand went up. “Is it true, Mr. Russell?”
“Is what true?”
From the other side of the room, Jason Mayer said, “Come on, Mr. R. It's all over school that you changed the class into a forest.”
He didn't know it, but Jason had just bailed me out. I leaned on the front edge of my desk. “Will one of you please show me the tree stumps? Obviously, I've also cut down all the trees.” Reluctantly, the class laughed, albeit briefly.
“Okay class. Pick sides—Barney and Alan, you're the captains. I'm the pitcher.” Baseball was a good way to take my mind off the trips to 1937 and 1911. They moved the desks. “OK, ready?”
First up was Tom O'Brien. “Single,” he said.
“Who's the senior U.S. Senator from New Jersey?”
“Christie,” said Tom, naming the governor instead.
“You're out.” Tom frowned and went to the end of the line. “One out, next batter.”
Mary Mitchell asked for a double. But she said please.
“Who is president of Russia?”
“Uh, Putin?”
“Go to second base. Next batter.”
Jacob Krugman asked for a double. “What is the vernal equinox?” I asked.
“The what?”
“You heard me.” I realized my tone was a bit sharp. “Sorry, Jacob.”
With a puzzled look, Jacob ventured a guess, “Is that the equation for the Mars rocket fuel?”
“Swing and a miss, you're out.” Groans came from his team and laughter came from the other. Barney Shera, the cleanup hitter, asked for a triple.
“What South American river has had an outbreak of man-eating fish?”
“The Amazon?”
“Well, it's a river, but you're out. Home team, batter up.”
The new batter was Brandy Levine. She asked for a single, but then she said, “Mr. R, what's wrong. You're never like this. Are you okay?”
“I'm fine thanks, Brandy.” She was right, and it wasn't them distracting me. “Who is president of England?”
Brandy, looking stumped, said, “M
r. Russell, there isn't a president in England; it's the Prime Minister in charge, isn't it?”
“Take first base, Brandy. You can hit a curve ball.” She smiled and went to first.
Dennis Rogers, next up, asked for a single.
“Into what country did NATO just send troops?”
“Spain, no wait.” Dennis reached out his hand, trying to retrieve his answer.
“You're out. Sorry.”
Brandy then said, “Mr. R, can I steal a base?”
“What does NATO stand for?”
She thought for a moment, and said, “Truth, justice, and the American way!”
Everyone laughed, me included. “Caught stealing. Two outs.” But the answer took the edge off.
Next up was Alan Goodman, who said “Home run, please, Mr. R.”
“What ancient civilization miscalculated the end of the earth, which is now supposed to happen this year?”
“The Aztecs?”
“Nope. You're out. Nice try, Alan.”
The game succeeded in distracting me—despite the ice melting down my face. “Class, those of you who got hits have no homework. Those of you who were out should write a paragraph about the question you missed for Monday.” I smiled when they booed.
As the bell rang, I began to pack my briefcase. Ash squeezed past the exiting kids. “Want to get out quick?”
“Hang on a bit, can you, Ash. I have the seventh period coming back for a few minutes.”
“Sure, I'll be in my room. Just come down.”
The seniors began to shuffle in and sit down. No one was talking. I felt their eyes boring through me. Jennifer Bennett said, “Mr. Russell, seriously, what happened in our class?” She sounded ferocious. Heads bobbed.
I gave them two answers. First, a version of the truth. “You know we witnessed the Triangle Fire in New York City. The Triangle Fire was the deadliest industrial disaster in New York City history. In 1911, it was the second deadliest disaster of any kind in New York City, and it stayed that way until the World Trade Center was attacked in 2001. Doors to the stairwells and exits were locked, which was not uncommon at the time, supposedly to prevent stealing and unauthorized work breaks. Most of the victims were young immigrant women, mostly Jewish and Italian, mostly around your ages.”
“As a result, new laws were enacted for fire safety, such as fireproofing, improved exits, and sprinkler systems. The fire was also the impetus for the growth of the International Ladies' Garment Workers' Union. The owners were prosecuted, but they were acquitted. Now, how we found ourselves there, I don't know. That's answer number 1.” Answer number 2 was that I had a friend who invented a projection system that recreates events and that he had asked me to try it out in my class. I told them he worked in Hollywood.
Jennifer said, “Which is it, Mr. R?” She barked at me, ready to bite.
“Which do you think?” The students looked around at each other.
Larry Singer said, “How are we supposed to know?” His bark was lower pitched.
“What do you THINK?” I barked back.
Leigh Cohen, looking at the clock, said, “Well, none of us is hurt, and no one got lost. But it was pretty realistic, whatever it was.”
Larry went on, “I don't think time travel is likely, so the Hollywood guy must be the answer.”
“Thanks, guys; you're right. I want you all to think about what you saw, what you know, and what is most likely. I don't want to keep you any longer. I know you all have better things to do on a weekend. We'll talk more on Monday. You're dismissed. Have a nice weekend.”
“Mr. R, some people had flashlights. That didn't seem real either,” said Jacob.
“Jacob, dry cell batteries and the little bulbs were invented in the late 1890s, and the casing we're used to first appeared a few years later. Good observation.”
Mike asked as his classmates rattled out, “Mr. Russell, what's a shirtwaist?”
“It's a kind of woman's blouse, Mike. Good question. Remind me to show you next week.”
As the class emptied, Jen Bennett stopped and whispered, “Mr. Russell, I think we were actually there. I think you know how to time travel.”
“You know, Jen,” I whispered back, “it felt that way to me too. Pretty good system, huh?” I smiled at her, and she gave me a weak, unconvinced smile in return. “Have a nice weekend, Jennifer.”
“You too, Mr. R.”
Before I left, I put the books on my chair to take home and look through over the weekend. I walked to Ashley's open door. “Ash, I've got to go to the office for a second. I'll be right back.”
“Okay. I'll be here.”
I walked down the hall. I'd never really noticed how remarkably quiet it is after school, with only the occasional kid at a locker. It's amazing how quickly this place empties on a Friday. George McAllister walked out of his office. His face was red. “Mr. Russell, may I have a word?”
“You haven't called me 'Mr. Russell' in five years. What is it, George?”
“It's come to my attention that there were some strange activities in your classroom today.”
My arms were crossed, holding me back. I've known George for almost nine years. He can be irritating when he plays the boss. Outside, away from school influences or activities, George is a considerate, thoughtful guy, although not very exciting. He taught middle-school math before he became a principal. At school, well, that's another story. He once asked if I had any interest in being a principal. I was a little insulted since he also said he thought he'd gotten the job because his predecessor had been “innovative.” George said that he was sure they liked him because he believed in following the rules. I told him I liked teaching but thanked him for thinking of me. “George, do you want to see for yourself? I promise there are no trees growing through the floor.”
“Well I suppose I should check into it.”
Reaching my classroom, I peered in the window. Everything seemed normal. But the buzz on my fingertips was there again as I opened the door. We walked through and into the White House Oval Office. The president was sitting at his desk, his rising eyebrows pulling his head up.
I knew right away we were in trouble, so I said quickly, “Mr. President, please, we're not a threat. When we stepped over the threshold, we thought we were going into my classroom. My name is Fritz Russell. I'm a high school teacher in Riverboro, New Jersey and somehow I have opened a time-travel portal. This is George McAllister, my principal. This is the fourth time today this has happened.”
“Fourth time?” George sputtered. “You told me it was nonsense!”
“What did you expect me to say?” Another door swung open abruptly, and a secret service agent entered, drawing a pistol.
George started to object. I said, “Quiet, George. This is my fault, I think. Mr. President, if you'll give me a moment to explain, I think I'll be able to convince you that we're no threat to you.”
The secret service agent said, “Sir, I think you should leave. I'll take care of this.”
“Mr. President, we are not armed.” I stared right at him. “I have ID, and I have a story to tell.”
The president said, “Tom, check them for weapons.”
George grumbled, and though Tom was a bit rough, I said, “George, we just walked in on the president of the United States. Stop complaining. This is the most interesting thing that's happened to you in the last ten years.” The president chuckled.
It was hard not to look around. We were in the Oval Office. And it really is oval. I glanced at the portraits and the Resolute Desk, and looked over the president's shoulder at the gardens. I felt like twins, one who just walked in on the president and another who inhaled the history of the place.
The agent turned to the president and said that we had no weapons. “Tom,” said the president, “check their identification and then put out an all-clear.”
“Yes, sir.” We handed him our drivers' licenses and told him our phone numbers.
The president stepped out from
behind his desk, and said, “Won't you sit down?” as he motioned to a couch. He sat across from us. “You said you had a story. The fourth time today?”
I wanted to look around at the architecture, the paintings, the bookcase, but I met his stare.
“Mr. President, I can't explain this, but right now that door,” pointing to where we came through, “is a passageway. What I'm about to tell you happened today, but I can't tell you how or why.” When the president said that he was skeptical, George chimed in with “me, too.”
“Yet here we are,” I said, looking from one to the other. “And George can verify that we were just in New Jersey a couple of minutes ago.” George shook his head in agreement. Then I recounted the events of the day, including my wound, watching the growing look of amazement on each man's face.
When finished, I said, “Mr. President, I apologize that we've taken up so much of your time. The only way to prove where we came from is to leave. If you're as curious as I am, maybe your secret service agent can take us to the door. Then we all can see what happens. We're clearly not a threat.”
“Mr. Russell, that's not what concerns me. If somehow you've made an entry into the space-time continuum, then you've proven part of Einstein's theories, and I really need proof of your proof. Why Mr. Russell, you could be top secret!” the president said.
I felt my stomach tighten. Although spoken with a smile, our surprise appearance had to concern him. His secret service agents would be worried. I was. I suggested we try to return to the school so he could see for himself and have Tom check that it was a school. “You can stand by your door and watch. I think that as long as the door is open, we have a connection. And once the door closes on our side, everything will go back to normal.”
“Tom, what about it?” asked the president.
“Mr. President, they don't seem dangerous. We've verified their personal information. We have locations. If this is real, we'll know in a second.”
“You're game?” asked the president.
Quantum Touch (Book 1): Storm Portal Page 5
