by W. Green
Suddenly, Dr. Currant popped into their view, smiling broadly. He handed the valise to Ethan. The old scientist was very animated as he spoke. “It went very well. I know enough about this town to sound halfway intelligent regarding recent events. I told them I was just visiting my nephew and his new bride. Cashing in the coins to buy them a belated wedding gift. No forms to fill out. No identification check. No cameras in the ceiling. Just two older fellows doing business. I know now why I fantasize about these times. Living is easy.” He patted the top pocket of his suit coat lightly. “I can’t flash it now,” he said, “but we have over 2,800 dollars American to play with. Let’s get a couple of pairs of nylons and hop a train out of town.”
The 20th Century Limited blew thorough a grade crossing at 100 miles an hour—in its wake swirled a trackside tornado of loose papers, leaves, and dust. Three powerful New York Central diesel locomotives hugged the banks of the Hudson River. They rumbled west into the sunset, pulling a train of rolling stock capped by an elegant, round-backed observation car. Zak Newman stared out the rear window, watching tracks, ties, and telephone poles vanish into the darkening eastern sky. The drumbeat of the wheels and rails locked him into a daze.
“Calling Zak … are you there?” asked Ethan. Slowly Zak turned back to Emma, Ethan, and A.C. Currant, who sat facing each other on the curved, high-backed, blue and gray banquette. “Join the party.”
Zak returned and slid in next to Emma.
“We’re lucky,” said Emma. “This is a great way to travel. And we’ve got the observation car almost to ourselves.”
“Except for those two young couples,” said Currant. He studied them for a moment. “I’ll bet they’re on a double-honeymoon holiday. Judging from their uniforms, they’re soldiers. Maybe they’re headed for the Army-Air Force football game. It wouldn’t be too early to get into the Windy City. Have little fun…” Currant’s eyes again darted off to the young couple and back, “see the big city, watch the big game, and head back to the hotel for some relaxation.” He looked at Emma for a reaction. He smiled wickedly when she blushed.
Just then a Pullman waiter made his way down the aisle carrying a tray full of drinks. The twins and Zak grabbed their Cokes and A.C. Currant gathered in his Black Label scotch-rocks tenderly as if it were a baby bird. Currant paid the man, delivered a tip and said, “Thank you, George.” The waiter, an African-American, grimaced, nodded politely, turned, and left.
“How did you know his name?” Emma asked.
“Didn’t,” said Currant, sipping his drink like it was sexual experience. “People always called Pullman porters ‘George’—after George Pullman, the man who invented the sleeping car. Not nice—but authentic. Or maybe it’s ‘authentic redneck.’ Anyway, you can bet that waiter believes we are of this world.”
“Not nice, Doctor,” said Emma. “By the way, remember we should not tell anyone we’re from Mystic Heights High School. We don’t want them tracking us down. We’re from Springfield Heights. There are hundreds of ‘Springfields’ out east.”
“You got it,” said Currant. Then he pulled a tiny silvery toy car from his coat pocket and tumbled it around in his palm like a worry stone.
“What’s that?”
Currant smiled. “My lucky charm. This was a gift from the Benz people. 2017 coupe, an exact but miniature replica.”
“You’re a little old for toy cars, aren’t you, Doctor?”
“Maybe, but I know just the person who would really like this.”
“Who’s that?”
“A little friend.” He had a strange look on his face. He picked up his drink and raised his glass. “Cheers, my friends! Or should I say my delightful field trip students?” He took another sip and smiled broadly. “Ah. I love the old days. Can’t get good booze like this anymore. I’m looking forward to the football game. Hot dogs, beer, a rousing college marching band, pretty blonde cheerleaders. Ah…the pageantry of it all—Soldier Field—100,000 spectators—you can’t beat it. That will be fun, don’t you think?”
“Well, it wasn’t too much fun for JFK. He never made it,” said Ethan. “Once they made that slow left turn off the expressway ramp on to Jackson, he was a sitting duck for a sniper.”
Currant shook his head. “Always on duty? Take a break. Enjoy the view.”
“I’ll bet Thomas Vallee was hated by everybody,” said Emma, ignoring the inventor’s pleas for pleasantries. “And I’ll bet they were all happy to see him killed by that cop.” She took a sip from her Coke and then looked at the glass. “You know, Dr. Currant, you may be right, even this Coke tastes better than the stuff we drink today.” She paused and then took another sip. “Yep. What do you think, Zak?”
Zak held his glass up in a mock toast and nodded in affirmation.
“Zak. Are you OK…not talking?”
Zak signed, “Just a short-term problem. I’ll become a better listener.”
“You’ll make it, Zakaroo,” said Ethan. “I’ll fill the verbal void. Let’s get back to our boy Vallee. This guy was hated by everybody. He did it. But they hated the way he did it.”
“It was brutal,” said Emma.
“You’re not kiddin’. First shot missed the target. Killed a little girl. Her mother behind took the same bullet. But she lived. Two nuns were hit with the next shot—or shots. The cops said it blasted through one nun’s habit and blew an ear off the other.” He shrugged his shoulders. “That made no sense. They were holding a banner that said ‘Catholics for Kennedy.’ One at either end—at least three feet apart. How does one bullet fired from the front hit two people three feet apart when they’re standing side to side facing the shooter? Unless there was another sniper shooting from the side.”
“The History says…” Currant interjected.
“Screw The History. It’s wrong. Everyone agrees Vallee’s M1 rifle fired eight shots max without reloading. We’ve got two nuns, a little girl, her mother, and three bystanders who took bullets. And a street sign ten feet in air with a bullet hole. And JFK caught three. That’s at least nine or ten—not eight. And maybe some missed shots to boot.”
Currant looked at Ethan and shook his head lightly. “This is old ground, my friend. You’ll see. You won’t be able to prove anything. One way or the other. Lots of bullets. Lots of witnesses. But no consensus. That’s typical of these of these events. Fear and panic. Shock and disbelief. But nobody can agree on what happened. The History tells the official story. Take my advice. Don’t get too wrapped up in your theories. Thomas Arthur Vallee was the lone gunman—and a vicious one at that.”
Emma nodded. “It was a vicious crime. First he shot JFK twice in the chest. One of them went right through his heart, killing him. But Vallee fired again and hit JFK dead center in the forehead. His head just exploded. Brain parts rained down on the crowd. All those schoolchildren watching. It must have been terrible.”
“We don’t want to see that, do we, Zak?” A.C. looked at the boy and took another zip of his scotch. “Man, this is good stuff.”
Zak shook his head.
Currant continued, “We’ll stay clear of the action. Some place that’s safe. Sadly, JFK’s a dead man and nothing can change that.”
Currant’s attitude greatly irritated Ethan. He raised his voice. “You’re wrong about that. JFK doesn’t have to die.” The two soldiers and their wives stopped their conversations and for the first time took notice of the four time travelers.
The others looked at each other blankly. Then Emma spoke out loudly. “You’re right, JFK doesn’t have to fly. He could take the train to the game.”
Currant chimed in. “Just like us. I hear he loves train travel…”
Ethan glanced at the two couples. They seemed to have lost interest now. They resumed their own conversations. His sister had pulled his butt out of the fire again. “Thanks, Emma.”
She gave him that “you should be” look.
A.C. whispered, “That was unwise, Mr. Wright. Please watch yourself in the future.�
��
Ethan nodded. He would watch himself. He would be more careful with his words. But he would not be stopped. He not only wanted to see the real history, but desperately wanted to change it. He vowed to himself that he would save JFK.
LOG of Zak Newman
October 31, 1963: 8:48 (Day 3 of time travel)
Yesterday, after decades of time travel and a full day of train travel, we arrived in Chicago. Today is Halloween. I think we were lucky, because if we had any sartorial miscues, they didn’t arouse suspicion given the variety of strange outfits being worn by the natives. I see plenty of wax lips and vampire teeth. We spent the day recovering from our trek in our new home base—a big, old, majestic hotel. It’s in a good location. Downtown, in the Loop, as they say, and not far from the assassination site about six blocks to the west. We’re located on Wabash Avenue in the midst of the diamond center of the city. Dr. Currant has already traded in some of our diamond stash for cash. We should have plenty now. We have two rooms. Unfortunately, I am sharing one with Dr. Currant. I woke up late this morning and he is not in the room. He said he might be out this morning. Maybe he’s getting some coffee. I could use some.
Since Currant does not understand sign language and I was not permitted bring my Voicenator, I am graced with his nonstop monologues in all waking hours. Sensing his vibes tells me he cares little about the Kennedy assassination. He is simply along for the ride. He really enjoys playing present in the past. Of course, he is the only one of us who was alive in 1963, and so, in a way, he is going home—back to his past—while the twins and I have entered a new world entirely foreign to us. No amount of reading, studying, or contemplating could prepare us for this moment. It is, in fact, wonderful and awful to walk in the world before one’s existence. It is terribly freeing knowing that you have no responsibility to this world. You have no future in this world. You are not a part of this world. It’s much like taking a trip to another land to which you bring all your anticipation of delight and leave behind (at least temporarily) all your responsibilities. We’re here to experience and to enjoy. I acknowledge our responsibility to the future to be careful with our words and deeds (even Dr. Currant is very serious about this), but other than that, I see this as a great, exciting, once-in-a-lifetime experience.
For the twins it is different. Ethan is here to make an impact on the future. He has a bug up his butt about the assassination. No matter what he says, he would love to be the man who saved JFK. And Emma is here to keep Ethan out of trouble. I hope she succeeds, because if we can maintain our cover, we can return again another time to a different place in history. This would be the greatest use of the technology of our time. Other than that, our modern American technology is only useful to keep others in the world from destroying us or the economy. And this same technology that “protects” us denies us the right to be truly free. Our every movement is watched, cataloged, calculated, and calibrated. This is not a life— it is a life sentence in a zoo called USA. So, I’m happy to be a time traveler back in Chicago on Halloween 1963.
END 10-31-63
-Chapter 4-
Secret Agendas
A.C. Currant checked his watch—9:10. He was alone. He had followed Warren Wright’s directions. A short cab ride had brought him to Clybourn and Southport—the northeast corner. He was upset. He should have demanded more information from the detective about “catching the red ball.” What the hell? He had no idea why he was standing alone on the street corner, but he was ready for action. He looked around. The streets were filled with rush-hour traffic shortcutting down Clybourn Avenue to get downtown. Currant stood before a small, dingy, white clapboard cottage, one of a few houses stuffed between rows of marginal and vacant stores. He wondered if this was it. Was this the right place? He hoped so, but nothing was happening.
Then somebody popped into view. A cute kid in dirty blue jeans and a frayed yellow T-shirt—he looked to be about four years old. A mutt followed him into the front yard—a scruffy black-and-white nondenominational barking, jumping, irritating canine. The dog had something in its mouth. It was red. Was this the ball? Currant stood about fifteen feet from them. They paid no attention to the visitor from another time. Playfully, the dog laid the ball at the feet of the boy. Then he leapt left and right, egging the kid on—pick up the ball and throw it. The kid looked at the dog and laughed. “Hey, Sparky. Whatdaya got? Oh. Ya want to play ball. OK.”
Just then the dog spotted something climbing a tree. The squirrel was more interesting than the ball now, and Sparky attacked. He raced to the tree, barking wildly. The squirrel focused on him and chattered retorts from a branch just inches out of the dog’s reach.
The boy looked disappointed and abandoned. He bent over, picked up the red ball and waved it side to side. He looked at the dog. Nothing. He taunted it again. Nothing. Then he tossed it toward Currant, who stood on the sidewalk inches from the curb. The ball bounced along the grass then rolled up the slight incline. The dog, still fascinated by the squirrel, paid no attention. The boy ran after the ball and tried to stop it before it rolled onto the sidewalk and into the street. Currant saw it coming. It was a slow grounder. An easy out. He timed his approach and reached down at the ideal moment. It took a last-second funny hop when it hit the edge of the walk, but he was ready. He caught it clean in midair. He smiled. Not bad for a 73-year-old.
“Hey, mister. Give me my ball,” said the youngster.
“Sure,” said Currant softly. “But you should be careful. Never chase the ball into the street. That would be dangerous. OK?” He handed him the ball. The kid turned and ran away, disappearing into the gangway along the house. The dog followed him. The squirrel remained in the tree, still chattering. Currant checked his watch—9:12. He looked up. Nothing was happening. A couple of cars faced each other in the nearby intersection—one of those “who has the right of way?” driving situations. The car closest to Currant let the other one pass. The driver and his passenger—maybe man and wife—waved a thank you to the other driver and moved on. Currant shrugged his shoulders and walked back to Clybourn Avenue.
“Mission accomplished. I hope you’re happy, Warren Wright,” he muttered to himself, not knowing if he really had done anything. But he did catch a little red ball. He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. A few minutes later, he was in a cab headed back downtown.
Emma, Ethan, and Zak strolled down Wabash Avenue. Just out to get some air in the big city—at least that’s what Ethan suggested over breakfast. Pigeons scuttled about the sidewalk, alternately padding toward the trio and then quickly scurrying away when it appeared they were about to be stepped upon. L trains rumbled on the elevated track system above. Heavy street traffic added to the din.
Emma wore a black leather jacket, black turtleneck sweater, black slacks, and black shoes. She felt comfortable in this outfit. She had previewed images of young people of the time and had decided the dress code of the group called the “Beats” matched her personality—young people who liked art, poetry, and movies and disliked the rigid structure of 1950s society. She spun around to face her companions. “Wonder why they call them L trains. ‘L’ for Loop?”
Zak gave the sign for the word “elevated.”
“Got it. That makes sense. “Where to, guys?” she asked as she skipped ahead, not waiting for an answer. There was none. She stopped and looked back again.
Zak had a quizzical look on his face and he signed, “Who knows?”
“Any idea where Dr. Currant is?” asked Ethan.
“Zak said he wasn’t in their room when he got up,” she replied.
“Zak?”
Zak shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s fine,” said Ethan. “We don’t need him right now. Maybe he’s cashing in some of his diamonds. This is the diamond district. Whatever. Listen, I have to make a phone call.” He sounded tense.
“Call?” Emma sensed something was up. “Last night Currant said if he wasn’t around this morning we should just eat bre
akfast and wait. He’ll bust an artery if he finds out that you used one of those phone things. Anyway, you don’t know anybody in Chicago. Or anywhere else for that matter. And you don’t even know how to operate a telephone.”
“I got a number from a book in our hotel room. I practiced. It’s very simple. You just input a sequence of seven numbers by spinning a dial. Then wait. The phone creates a ringing sound on the other person’s device. He lifts up his phone, and then you just start talking.” He smiled. “It’s so easy, even you could do it, Sis.”
“Thanks for the compliment and don’t call me ‘Sis’. Anyway, who are you going to call?”
Ethan ignored her and looked up the street. He spotted a public phone about fifty feet ahead. Before she could say anything, he ran to the phone and dropped a coin into the black box.
“Ethan!” Emma cried out, shouting over the sound of a passing L train. By the time she and Zak caught up with him he had just entered the last digit. They could only hear one side of the conversation.
“Secret Service? Let me speak to the agent in charge.” Ethan was intense. “Well—that’s fine, I’ll talk to you. What? That doesn’t matter. Look, there’s going to be an attack on the president. He’s in danger. Yes. In Chicago.”
Emma tugged on Ethan’s jacket. She couldn’t believe he was doing this. “Stop!” she said loudly.
Ethan turned away and pushed his head into the payphone enclosure. “Trust me, I just know. The man’s name is Thomas Arthur Vallee. V-A-L-L-E-E.” Then another train rolled overhead, making conversation impossible for a moment. “Have you got that? Right. You must find him and stop him.” Ethan hung up and turned to face Emma and Zak.
