Mary Beth returned to the reading room and the love seat, picked up a magazine, and read about an actress who had adopted three children from Africa. Then she perused an article about a Mississippi family that lived on thirty dollars a week. She read mindless fluff until she heard a clock chime nine times in the adjacent room and decided it was time to do something else.
Mary Beth finished her cold coffee, got up from the love seat, and stretched her arms. She stepped toward the door but stopped when she heard a loud and persistent bark. She walked to the window, wiped condensation from a pane, and peered through the glass. She needed only a second to see why the neighbor's dog, a German shepherd, was making such a fuss. College boy was trying to climb over Professor Bell's back fence.
Mary Beth did not bother tapping on the glass this time. She did not bother picking up her phone. She instead bolted from the room and raced toward the basement as fast as she could.
She did not know why the man had returned. Nor did she know why he had decided to enter the yard by climbing over the fence rather than walking through the unlocked front gate.
She knew only that when this daring individual tried to reenter the Painted Lady, he would have to first get past a protective lady. Mary Beth McIntire would be waiting for him.
CHAPTER 5: MARK
The elderly woman stared at Mark, offered a kind smile, and finally asked a question that had no doubt been on her mind since she had joined him in line.
"Are you auditioning for a movie, young man?"
Mark felt his stomach flutter.
"No, ma'am."
The woman widened her smile.
"I just thought I'd ask. I haven't seen a haircut or clothes like yours since I was in college. Back then, of course, all the boys looked like you."
Mark looked around the small grocery store for eavesdroppers. He didn't mind chatting with a woman who had to be pushing eighty, but he didn't want to invite additional scrutiny. He had already drawn his fair share of hard stares and raised eyebrows.
"When did you go to college?" Mark asked in a soft voice.
"I graduated in 1959," the woman said. "I know that's ancient history to young folks like you, but to me it seems like yesterday. The fifties were the best days we've ever had."
Mark smiled.
"I agree."
The woman nodded but said no more. A young person had agreed with her nostalgic view of the past. What more did she need?
Mark approached the checkout counter and handed the cashier, a young Latino woman, a magazine he had pulled from a nearby rack. He watched in fascination as she dragged the periodical over a tinted glass plate and three lighted numbers popped onto a small screen.
"That will be five thirty-eight," the cashier said.
Mark gave the clerk a five-dollar bill and a fifty-cent piece bearing the image of Benjamin Franklin. He held his breath when the woman gave the bill and the coin a cursory inspection and exhaled when she handed him a dime and two pennies minted in 2017.
He thanked the cashier, nodded to the elderly woman, and headed for the door. A moment later, he stepped into a busy parking lot, tucked the magazine under his shirt to keep it dry, and started toward the Painted Lady three blocks away.
Mark had wanted to do more than buy a magazine from a local grocery store. He had wanted to spend the entire day in Los Angeles and see more of the twenty-first century, but he had decided even before accessing the tunnel a second time to take it slow.
As he headed down the first block, Mark thought about Percival Bell's letter, the crystals in his pockets, and the woman in the window. He had more questions than answers. Who was she? What had she held in her hand? Did she live in the mansion? Was she alone? Did she know about the time tunnel? Had she reported him to the police?
Mark suspected that she had told someone. He would have told someone had he found a stranger milling about his property.
Despite the obvious risks of going back, Mark had not hesitated before committing to another trip. He had wanted to satisfy his curiosity and satisfy it before Ben got up and started asking a lot of questions. So he jumped back in. He grabbed the colorless rocks and what was left of his sanity and forty-five minutes later accessed the tunnel and the backyard again.
This time he had not walked to the middle of the yard, where he could easily be seen, but rather toward the mansion itself. He had moved quickly to the front gate, a windowless side of the house, and the street. To his knowledge, he had not drawn the attention of others.
Mark had then gone about exploring the neighborhood. He had visited a park, an unoccupied elementary school, and finally a small grocery store, where he noted the difference between the time on a clock and the time on his watch. Both seemed out of whack.
Once in the store, a place that offered more pop and potato chips than fruits and vegetables, he had gone straight to the magazines. He searched the racks for something useful and found it in the form of a news magazine's seventy-fifth anniversary edition. He concluded he would be able to learn a lot about the world after 1959 by simply thumbing through some pages.
Mark picked up his step as he crossed a street and started down the last block, but he stopped when he saw two women talk and laugh on the sidewalk in front of the Painted Lady. Neither seemed eager to exit the scene. Both no doubt would view him with suspicion if he walked past them to the front gate and gained entry to a property he no longer owned.
He retreated a few steps to the street corner, pondered his options, and then remembered the gate in back. If he could reach the gate unnoticed and uncontested, he could access the mansion's backyard and run to the time tunnel before any nosy girls could tap on a window.
Mark stepped away from the women and walked around the block until he reached the house that stood behind his one-time home. He studied the residence for a moment and didn't see anything that might cause alarm. The driveway was empty. Curtains were drawn. No humans or animals prowled the premises. At nine o'clock local time on what Mark knew was Friday, June 2, 2017, the property looked positively inviting.
Mark checked again for onlookers and then stepped toward a gate that provided access to the backyard. He lifted the latch, opened the gate slowly, and walked inside. He listened for voices or barks, heard neither, and proceeded through the side yard to the grassy patch in back. He smiled when he saw the Painted Lady in the background and the gate the properties shared.
He looked up at the sky and noticed a new bank of dark clouds rolling in from the Pacific. He made a mental note to bring a light jacket or an umbrella on his next visit.
Mark patted the magazine under his shirt, saw that it was firmly secured, and stepped toward the fence. He reached the gate as the wind picked up and the drizzle turned into a steady rain. He tried to lift the latch but found that he couldn't. Rust and neglect had apparently rendered it useless. So he gave up on the latch and decided to climb over the fence instead.
He placed two hands on top of the six-foot barrier and started to pull himself up when he heard a bark. He lowered himself to the ground, glanced over his right shoulder, and saw a complication he didn't need. A German shepherd had detected his presence.
The canine exited the far side of a covered porch, ran around a fountain, and raced toward the trespasser from the 1950s at breakneck speed. The dog looked hungry.
Mark didn't need another reason to move with haste. He quickly pulled half of his body over the top of the fence and lifted his feet just as the German shepherd lunged at them. The dog missed his target and tumbled a few feet but quickly regrouped. He charged again and this time sank his teeth into the intruder's right foot.
Mark winced at the pain. He eventually shook himself free but not before Fido bit into his foot a second time and chewed off a chunk of his gray slacks. He swung both feet over the top of the fence and landed on all fours in a patch of petunias.
Dazed, shaken, and unnerved, Mark stood up, brushed dirt off his pants, and stepped into the yard. As he walked bri
skly toward the stairwell, the Painted Lady, and 1959, Mark glanced at the large paned window. He saw no one behind it. Thank God for small blessings, he thought.
Mark stuck a hand in his shirt pocket and reached for the skeleton key. He retrieved it when he reached the top of the stairway, held it out when he started down the steps, and dropped it when he saw a woman with folded arms standing in front of the door.
"Hello," the woman said. "Are we having fun yet?"
Mark dropped his head and sighed. He berated himself for not trusting his instincts. He should have waited a day before traveling again. He looked at the woman.
"Who are you?"
She narrowed her eyes.
"Perhaps I should ask you that question."
"I'm Mark Ryan. I live here."
"That's funny," the woman said. "I'm a guest here. I know the man who owns this house. I know his wife. You don't look like either one. Shall we try again?"
"Please let me pass," Mark said. "I mean you no harm. If you let me pass, I promise you'll never see me again."
The woman dropped her hands to her hips and laughed.
"You're a regular comedian."
"Please," Mark said. "Just let me in."
"No."
"I could force my way in."
"I could also scream," the woman said. She hardened her stare. "I don't think you want me to wake the neighbors. Do you?"
"No."
"Why don't you be a good boy and return to your movie set or frat party or wherever you came from?"
"I can't," Mark said.
The woman's face softened.
"Why not?"
"I'm not from here."
"What do you mean you're not from here?" she asked. "You just told me you live here."
"I do," Mark said. He took a breath. "I live here in 1959."
CHAPTER 6: MARY BETH
Saturday, March 21, 1959
Ten minutes later, Mary Beth stared at a copy of the Los Angeles News – a March 21, 1959, copy of the Los Angeles News – and then at the strange man she had captured in Geoffrey Bell's backyard. For the second time in less than an hour, she questioned her sanity.
"Let me get this straight," Mary Beth said. She sat across from the home invader at a small table in the kitchen. "You've done all this with two rocks and a key?"
Mark nodded.
"The rocks activate the tunnel downstairs. The key opens the exterior door from the outside. I was about to use the key when I ran into you."
Mary Beth smiled as she revisited the encounter in the stairway. She had not believed for a minute that Mark was from 1959, but she had let him enter the basement anyway because she believed him to be harmless and in need of help. Now that she was sitting in a venue that tested even her fertile imagination, she did not know what to believe.
"I'm sorry for startling you," Mary Beth said.
"That's all right, Miss—"
Mary Beth extended a hand.
"I'm Mary Beth McIntire. It's nice to meet you, Mark Ryan."
Mark shook her hand.
"It's nice to meet you too."
Mary Beth paused to inspect her surroundings. She recognized the kitchen but almost none of its trappings. The table was different. So were the oven, the refrigerator, and cabinets. Pastel pink had replaced stainless steel. A percolator and a blender stood in place of an espresso machine and a toaster. Fancier paper covered the walls.
Mary Beth had noticed other things as well. The heavenly basement she had explored in 2017 was now a dingy dump. The living room and the dining room sported furniture from Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best. Bright sunshine spilled through clear windows. A black telephone with a rotary dial sat atop a counter.
"Where are the rocks?" Mary Beth asked.
"Right here," Mark said.
He reached into his pants pockets, retrieved two colorless crystals, and put them on the table next to a skeleton key. Each rock was three inches long.
Mary Beth picked up one of the stones, held it up to the overhead light, and then placed it beside its twin. She tapped her fingers on the Formica tabletop as she thought of something to say. She still was not convinced this wasn't a dream brought on by undercooked food.
"How did you know about the rocks and the tunnel?" Mary Beth asked.
Mark reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet.
"I read this. It's a letter from Percival Bell, the man who built this house, to his wife."
"May I see it?"
Mark nodded and handed Mary Beth the letter.
"He intended to travel to June 2, 2017, but I'm pretty sure he never did. I found the letter, the crystals, and the key in a locked drawer upstairs."
Mary Beth read the letter.
"I've heard of this man," she said. "He was the great-grandfather of the professor who invited my family here. Geoffrey Bell, our host, said that Percival died of a stroke only a few months after moving into this place. I'll bet he died right after writing this letter."
"That makes sense," Mark said.
Mary Beth glanced again at the letter.
"It says here that you need only one crystal to make the tunnel work."
Mark nodded.
"I haven't tested Percival Bell's claim, but I have no reason to believe it's false. I took both crystals just in case I needed them."
Mary Beth smiled sheepishly.
"Can I have one?"
Mark put a hand to his chin and studied her.
"Can I trust you?"
"No," Mary Beth said.
Both of them laughed.
"In that case, take one," Mark said.
Mary Beth grabbed one of the rocks and placed it in a pocket. She felt conspicuously underdressed in a crimson University of Alabama T-shirt, yoga pants, and flip-flops.
"Thank you," she said.
"You're welcome."
Mary Beth gazed at her new friend and noticed that he was not just kind and humble. He was also strikingly handsome. He had thick brown hair, brushed up in a pompadour, and a chiseled, shaven, boyish face that would turn heads in any century.
"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young Warren Beatty?"
"Who's Warren Beatty?" Mark asked.
Mary Beth laughed.
"He's a famous actor. Or at least he will be a famous actor."
Mark took a breath.
"You probably know a lot of things about the next fifty-eight years."
Mary Beth nodded at Mark and then glanced at the newspaper. She noted headlines that seemed torn from a history text. Nikita Khrushchev had fired one of his advisors. China's Red Army had put down a rebellion in Tibet. California was preparing to play West Virginia in the title game of the NCAA men's basketball tournament.
"How much do you know about the future?" Mary Beth asked.
"I know almost nothing," Mark said. He reached under his shirt, pulled out a magazine, and placed it on the table. "That's why I bought this. I wanted to read about the future."
Mary Beth picked up the periodical, a special edition that touted its news coverage between 1942 and 2017, and quickly flipped through its pages. She noted a dog-eared page that featured photos and information on the Apollo program, the moon landings, and the space shuttle. She slid the open magazine across the table.
"I see you like rockets," Mary Beth said.
"I hope to build them someday," Mark replied. "I'll graduate with an engineering degree in a few weeks and hope to find a job at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory or another research facility. My dad worked at JPL until he died last fall."
Mary Beth looked at him thoughtfully.
"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you have any other family?"
Mark nodded.
"I still have my mom and a brother. Mom is in Fresno for the next several days. My brother, Ben, is upstairs sleeping. This is our spring break."
"Do you attend the university?" Mary Beth asked.
"I do. I live there most of the time too. I come
home on weekends to look after my mother and do odds and ends around the house."
"Have you lived here long?"
Mark shook his head.
"We moved in three months ago. Mom thought about selling the place after my dad died, but she decided to keep it. This was their dream home. She wanted to hold onto the dream even if she couldn't share it with my father."
"I see."
"What about you? Do you really attend the University of Alabama?"
"I used to," Mary Beth said.
"I figured as much from your shirt and your accent," Mark said. "I don't hear southern accents around here very often. It's pretty."
"Thank you."
Mary Beth blushed. She didn't know whether he was sincere or simply trying to weasel something out of her, but she accepted his compliment at face value. She liked compliments. She hadn't received many from handsome young men since that awful night in Tuscaloosa.
"So you used to attend Alabama," Mark said. "Does that mean you graduated?"
Mary Beth nodded.
"I graduated a few weeks ago – or fifty-eight years from now," she said with a laugh. "I'm still trying to get a handle on this time-travel thing."
"That makes two of us."
Mary Beth smiled.
"That's good to know. If I'm going to lose my mind, I would at least like some company."
Mark laughed and shook his head. Then he took a closer look at his new acquaintance. It was clear from his puzzled eyes that he still had a lot of questions.
"Did you say you were a guest in this house in 2017?" Mark asked.
"I did."
"So are you on vacation?"
"I am," Mary Beth said. "We are. My parents brought my sister and me to Los Angeles as sort of a graduation present. My sister, Piper, graduated from high school about a week ago."
"Do you live in Alabama?" Mark asked.
Mary Beth nodded.
"We live in Huntsville. That's in the northern—"
Class of '59 (American Journey Book 4) Page 3
