Class of '59 (American Journey Book 4)

by John A. Heldt

  Mark lifted the latch, which he could feel but not see, and pulled the drawer handle until he heard a click. He scampered out of the kneehole, tugged on the handle again, and this time encountered no resistance. He opened the locked compartment with one easy pull.

  His heart raced when he looked inside the drawer and saw two colorless stones that resembled gypsum crystals he had once seen in a rock shop. He took them out of the drawer, placed them on top of the desk, and gave each a thorough inspection.

  Mark did not know if the gems were valuable, so he conducted a test. He grabbed one of the stones, walked to the window, and pressed the rock against the glass. He tried to cut a groove but did not succeed in creating even a scratch. Whatever he held in his hand, it was not a diamond.

  Mark returned to the desk, placed the rock next to its twin, and stuck his hand into the deep drawer. He quickly found two more objects: a large skeleton key and a piece of paper.

  He retrieved the items, put them on the desk, and gave them a look. The key was ornate and shiny but otherwise unremarkable. The paper was something else.

  Mark examined the slip and saw it was a sheet of academic stationery. He noted a name at the top of the page and a date in a corner and began reading a detailed personal letter that Percival Bell, a professor of geology and physics, had written on March 22, 1900.

  Mark needed only a minute to realize he had discovered something potentially far more valuable than precious gems. He had found the musings of a man who had apparently traveled backward in time on three occasions and planned to travel forward in time the very next day.

  He paid close attention to the back page. In the first five paragraphs, the professor, the original owner of the Painted Lady, had stated his intentions. Bell planned to test the limits of a time tunnel under his house by traveling to June 2, 2017, a date he had picked at random. He apparently intended to leave the letter for his wife in case he never came back.

  Mark reread the letter and this time focused on the closing paragraph. He could not help but admire a man who had risked everything in the pursuit of knowledge.

  "Please know that I do not undertake this venture lightly. I know the risks and accept them. I take them because the interests of science demand that I do. Give my best to the children should I not return. I will think of them – and you – fondly."

  Mark wanted to run to the library and learn the fate of Percival Bell. He also wanted to see if there was anything to the professor's claim that he had traveled through time on three occasions.

  He found the idea preposterous at face value. Yet Bell had documented how he had planned to travel to 2017 in great detail. Perhaps he wanted to do more than apologize to his wife and children. Perhaps he wanted to leave something to science in case he failed.

  Mark stared into space and pondered yet another possibility. What if Percival Bell had not traveled at all? What if he had changed his mind or had a life-altering experience? What if he had died before stepping into his so-called time tunnel? Surely he had not expected his wife to find a letter in a locked drawer. Something did not make sense.

  Mark looked again at the letter, the rocks, and the key, which, according to the letter, opened the exterior door of the tunnel. He had all he needed to determine whether the professor was a genius or a lunatic. Dare he act on his curiosity?

  He put the four items back in the drawer and walked again to the window. He looked out at his quiet street and noticed how bland and pedestrian it was. He wondered what the street looked like in 2017. He wondered what cars, clothes, and people looked like.

  Mark heard a noise and turned away from the window. He glanced at the door just as Charlotte, the family's three-year-old Himalayan cat, entered the room. He wondered how long it would be before his eighteen-year-old brother, Ben, an early riser, also got up.

  He did not wonder about his mother. Donna was in Fresno visiting her brother. She would not return to Los Angeles until March 29.

  Mark paced back and forth in his room for several minutes. He knew he should forget what he had found, make some coffee, and put a dent in the homework he had neglected for days, but he could not. He was intrigued, mesmerized, and hooked. He had something amazing within his grasp. He could not let it go. Could he? He decided he could not.

  Less than an hour after finding the letter, two rocks, and the key in a locked drawer, Mark Ryan walked out of his bedroom, taking the items with him. He did not know what he would do when he reached the basement of the Painted Lady, but he did know one thing. The second-to-last day of his spring break was about to get interesting.

  CHAPTER 3: MARK

  Mark wasted little time walking down a flight of stairs to the main floor and then down another flight to the basement. He had visited the lowest level of the mansion only once before. It was just as dark, dingy, and depressing the second time.

  He flipped on a light and walked through the room to a nondescript door that presumably provided access to a tunnel and the backyard. According to Percival Bell's letter, the tunnel that connected the basement to the yard was no ordinary corridor. It was a time machine, a magic portal, a passageway between the present and the past and maybe the future too.

  Mark retrieved Bell's letter from a pocket, scanned the particulars, and wondered again whether he was reading the words of a genius or a lunatic. If the professor was telling the truth, then all Mark had to do was step into the tunnel with at least one of the stones and wait for magic to happen. He could not believe time travel could be that simple.

  Mark felt a twinge of fear as he tucked the letter away. Maybe running to the library first was not a bad idea. He wanted to know what had happened to Percival Bell on March 22, 1900. He wanted to know a lot of things. He worried about failure.

  Then he got an idea. If he took a simple precaution, he could minimize the risk of an unpleasant outcome. He turned around, surveyed the basement, and looked for two heavy but portable objects he could use to keep two doors from closing behind him.

  Mark found what he needed in the form of two bricks. Both looked like leftovers from the construction of the house. Each appeared to be more than sufficient. He walked to a pile of debris a few feet away, picked up the bricks, and returned to the door. He felt his fear subside.

  Mark lowered the bricks to the floor and prepared to enter what he had every reason to believe was a simple passageway. He patted the shirt pocket containing the letter and the key and then the trouser pockets containing the crystals. He had everything he needed.

  Deciding that he had to either act or walk away, Mark opened the door, picked up the bricks, and stepped inside a tunnel that was fifteen feet long, eight feet high, and five feet wide. He placed one brick between the door and the doorjamb and then carried the other to the middle of the chamber. He waited for something to happen. Within seconds, something did.

  Mark noticed a change immediately. He lifted his head and saw a string of blue and white crystals, embedded in the ceiling, light up like bulbs on a Christmas tree. They flickered and glowed and gave an otherwise dreary space a festive feel.

  Then Mark looked down and saw something else. The three-inch crystals he had placed in his pockets had also come to life. They emitted bright light that shimmered through his wool pants. Something was going on, he thought. Something was really going on.

  Mark took a breath as he battled both anxiety and excitement. Dare he take the next step and actually walk outside? He checked his watch and saw that it was seven fifteen, or at least seven fifteen inside the Painted Lady. What time it was in the backyard was anyone's guess.

  The would-be time traveler collected himself once again, glanced at the exterior door, and considered his options one last time. He patted his shirt pocket, felt the key, and decided to take the plunge. He picked up the second brick and walked to the door.

  Mark hesitated only a moment before turning the knob and opening the door. He withdrew for a few seconds as daylight hit him hard and fast. When his eyes adjusted t
o the light, he stepped through the door, placed the second brick between the door and the jamb, and advanced to the first of twenty brick steps. The steps rose about ten feet to ground level.

  Mark noticed something different the minute he got his bearings. The stairway looked clean and new – or at least restored. No weeds shot up between the bricks. No cracks marred the steps.

  The collegian noticed something else too. It was raining. A steady drizzle fell from a light gray sky. Just minutes earlier, the sky had been cloudless, blue, and bright.

  Mark took another breath and slowly ascended the stairs. Though he heard nothing unusual and certainly nothing that might cause alarm, he felt apprehensive. He was literally stepping into something new and unknown. He had no idea what awaited him.

  Mark reached the top of the stairs thirty seconds later, walked to the center of the spacious yard, and stopped. He spun around, gave his surroundings a 360-degree inspection, and let the reality of the moment sink in. He raised his arms to the sky.

  I did it! I really did it!

  No matter where he looked, he saw something new. The lawn was plush and surrounded by a six-foot cedar fence he had never seen. A riding mower occupied a covered space near the house. Something that looked like Sputnik protruded from the roof. Even the Painted Lady looked different. It sported a fresh coat of latex and upgraded windows.

  Mark saw a sign that read: THIS HOUSE PROTECTED BY SENTRY 2000. He did not, thankfully, see one that read: BEWARE OF DOG.

  He felt a knot form in his stomach as the truth of his situation slowly set in. Mark Ryan, a college senior in 1959, was no longer in 1959. He was in another time and maybe another place. Percival Bell had been no lunatic. He was a man who had possessed an incredible secret.

  For a few minutes Mark walked around the yard and basked in his surroundings. He noted sights he hadn't seen before and sounds he hadn't heard. He marveled at the sight and sound of a massive twin-rotor helicopter that roared over the mansion.

  Mark wanted to explore. He wanted to see the world beyond the lawn of his once and present home. He looked for a way out of the fenced yard and saw two possibilities: a gate in front and a gate in back. The latter provided access to a neighbor's backyard.

  Mark started toward the latter but stopped when he heard a tapping sound. He turned around, looked at a large paned window in the Painted Lady, and saw a young woman look back.

  The woman frowned. When she lifted a small object, pressed it against her ear, and pointed at Mark, as if ordering him to stay put, he panicked and ran. He ran toward the house, down the stairs, and to the door he had propped open with a brick.

  Mark opened the exterior door, grabbed the brick, and slammed the door shut as he entered the tunnel. When the flickering lights told him he could advance, he did just that. He opened the interior door, grabbed the other brick, and shut the door behind him.

  He didn't bother to see if anyone followed. He ran through the dingy basement and up the stairs to the main floor of a home that looked comfortingly familiar.

  Mark reached a recliner in the living room just as a clock on the mantle chimed and signaled a quarter past the hour. He collapsed in the chair, caught his breath, and stared at the wall. At seven fifteen on what was presumably still March 21, 1959, he took some time to think.

  CHAPTER 4: MARY BETH

  Friday, June 2, 2017

  Mary Beth poured herself a cup of coffee and wandered about thirty feet from the kitchen to a cozy reading room that faced Geoffrey Bell's backyard. She liked quiet spaces like this because they allowed her to relax, set her troubles aside, and concentrate on things that mattered.

  She sat down on a love seat, placed her cup on a coffee table, and gazed across the room at a large paned window. She admired the window – a restored, weatherized version of the original – almost as much as the wicker furniture and the seashell-themed paper that covered the walls.

  Mary Beth glanced at her cell phone, noted the time of eight o'clock, and curled into her seat. If she did nothing else on the second-to-last day of her rainy California vacation, she would enjoy an exquisite cup of French roast, relish a rare moment of peace, and ponder her future.

  She didn't worry much about professional fulfillment. She knew she would enter the medical school at the University of Alabama at Birmingham in seven weeks, begin a series of degree programs and residencies, and emerge from the chaos as a capable surgeon.

  Whether she would emerge as a happy woman was an open question. Mary Beth had never imagined life without Jordan, the boy she had dated since the eleventh grade. Now that he was gone, she refused to take the long view of anything. She measured happiness in terms of good days and bad. The distant future was a murky swamp she was not yet ready to explore.

  Mary Beth retrieved her cup, took a sip, and placed the cup back on the table. The coffee was hot, piping hot, unlike the weather of the past seven days. A storm front had brought a week of cool air and rain to Southern California and forced the McIntire family to seek refuge in museums and shopping malls instead of amusement parks and beaches.

  Brody and Colleen had adjusted well to the weather. So had Mary Beth. Each had enjoyed the J. Paul Getty Museum, the California Science Center, and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion.

  Piper was another matter. She had moped all week about the gray skies, chilly winds, and persistent drizzle. She insisted that a Los Angeles vacation was not complete without a visit to the beach, Disneyland, and Dodger Stadium. She had spent a disproportionate part of the week reading mysteries in the antique-filled bedroom the Bells had provided her.

  Mary Beth started to reach for her coffee again but stopped when she heard someone open an outside door. She knew it couldn't be her sister. Piper didn't rise before ten unless she had to.

  Mary Beth knew it couldn't be her parents either. They were in Beverly Hills attending a lecture on investment opportunities. Unless the Bells had returned home a day early, someone else was moving about their property. Did they employ a groundskeeper? Mary Beth picked up her phone, got up from the love seat, and stepped toward the window.

  She reached the window a few seconds later, peered through the rain-streaked glass, and scanned the yard. She saw nothing of interest. Then just that quickly a man wearing a white button-down shirt and cuffed gray slacks walked into view. If he was a groundskeeper, he didn't look the part. He looked more like a college student from the 1950s.

  Mary Beth dialed Geoffrey Bell's cell-phone number, tapped on the glass, and glared at the man, who was almost certainly a trespasser. She pressed the phone to her ear, waited for Bell to answer, and pointed at the man when he looked at her. She wanted him to know that she had seen him and was in the process of checking him out.

  Mary Beth frowned when Bell did not pick up the call and panicked when the trespasser, who appeared startled and frightened, ran toward the house and down a stairway that led to the basement. She felt her stomach drop when she heard the basement door slam.

  She started to leave a message but ended her call when she realized that leaving a message would do no good. She did not have time to wait for the professor to call back. She had to deal with the situation now.

  Mary Beth raced out of the room, ran down a hallway, and made a beeline for an interior door that led to a basement she had never seen. A moment later, she threw the door open, flipped on the lights, and started down a stone staircase that looked almost medieval.

  She felt a little uneasy as she descended the steps. She did not know what waited in the basement. She doubted the wisdom of her actions. A smart person, Mary Beth thought, would run upstairs, lock the door, and call the police. A smart person would carry a weapon.

  Mary Beth hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and braced herself for an unpleasant confrontation. She did not know what she would say when she encountered the man. She did not know what she would do. She knew only that she had to act quickly and decisively.

  Mary Beth entered the basement expecting to
find a man. She did not expect to find a thirty-by-forty-foot space that looked like a heavenly lobby. White lights illuminated a chamber with white walls, white carpeting, and a white ceiling. A glass-and-brass coffee table stood between two large white couches near the back of the room.

  "Hello?" Mary Beth asked. "Is anyone in here?"

  No one replied. Then again, no one else was in the room. If a man had entered this basement, he had either raced out of the house at the speed of light or vanished into thin air.

  Mary Beth walked around the room looking for clues. She found nothing useful. Then she saw a nondescript door that almost blended into the wall facing the backyard.

  She gathered her courage once again, stepped toward the door, and opened it. She found a drab, narrow, unlighted tunnel that led to another door. She did not find a man.

  Impossible.

  Mary Beth walked to the other door, opened it, and saw what she expected to see: a brick staircase that led to the backyard. She ascended the steps, stepped onto the lawn, and scanned the property for young men in white shirts and gray slacks. She didn't find anything more interesting than a riding mower. For the first time since tapping on the window of the reading room, she began to question what she saw. She needed more coffee.

  Mary Beth walked down the brick stairs, shut the self-locking exterior door, and returned to the basement. She almost hoped to find the trespasser waiting for her. Better to lose her life, she thought, than lose her sanity. She laughed to herself. What a morning.

  As she ascended the medieval steps, reentered the main part of the residence, and worked her way back to her French roast, Mary Beth pondered her next action. She considered calling Professor Bell again but ultimately decided against it. She did not want to interrupt his morning by reporting phantom trespassers. If he returned her aborted call later in the day, she would simply tell him she had a question about accessing his satellite television service.