by W. Green
Cain rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and nested his chin into his the intertwined knuckles of both hands. “How so?”
Emma moved even closer to Cain and sat on the corner of his desk as if they were the only two people in the room.
“Call it in. Contact your boss, Mr. Ogilvie now. Tell him what's happening. Tell him he can be a hero, if he calls Mayor Daley and explains the situation. As much as Daley wants the parades and the hoopla, he does not want anything to happen to his golden boy—especially in Chicago. Daley must call JFK and tell him not to come to Chicago tomorrow.”
Cain thought for a moment. His face relaxed and he smiled. He reached over and held Emma’s hand in his. “You know young lady. That’s not half-bad idea. It’s the old lemonade from lemons. Fact is—if they don’t locate those two shooters—someone is going have to call it into Washington. And this fellow Vallee may concoct some strange stories if they arrest him. We don’t need any bad publicity here either, even if there is nothing to it.” He released her hand and leaned back in the chair. “I’ll take that recording as evidence. Now, I want you to leave so I can get to work.”
Ethan couldn’t believe it. He burst out, “So you’re going to call it off?”
“Yes. I’m going to do just what she said. If the mayor won’t call, I’ll have my boss Ogilvie call. And if he won’t call, then I will. Makes good sense considering all the facts. And someone should benefit. Why not the good mayor, the sheriff, and me? Good politics also.”
“Good for JFK too,” said Ethan.
Cain rubbed his chin with his right hand. “Correct—he’s a lucky man.” He stood again and shook everyone’s hand. “Success in school. Stop back and see me in a few years. I have big plans and those people that help me will be rewarded. Stick with Dick.”
The time travelers and Quinn were about to leave.
“The record please,” said Cain.
Currant handed it to him.
“Thanks. Doctor. No hard feelings. Teachers are important too."
Currant looked at him and said, “We can all learn something new, Mr. Cain.”
“You are correct, my friend. I seem to always learn by mistake,” said Cain. “That’s the story of my life.”
LOG of Zak Newman
November 2, 1963: 8:10 (Day 5 of time travel)
Well today is the day—The History says JFK will be killed in a few hours. According to Ethan and Currant, Emma made a great pitch to Cain last night. My three friends think her logic will sway him. Cain will ask Ogilvie to ask Daley to ask JFK to cancel his visit. We can hope—and that's all.
I've been listening to the radio news about Vietnam. “FLASH—the Diem brothers committed suicide during a military coup.” Right. Of course, in a few days the world will find out that story is bogus. In reality, the two political puppets absorbed multiple gunshot and knife wounds—execution style—a cold-blooded assassination. So it is with news. Often the first accounts are wrong with the later accounts corrected, or the first accounts are right with the later accounts corrected. It really depends who has been killed and who can control the facts. In this case, the military junta was able to control the story until the photos of the bloodied brothers’ bodies, hands tied behind their backs, reached America. Dressed in priest robes, stowed in the back of a military vehicle trussed up like sheep to be shorn, the Diems had their reign terminated abruptly. So much for the suicide story.
Right now, this Saturday morning, JFK and his advisors are deciding what to do with Vietnam. Even considering the importance of the Diem deaths, The History has JFK heading off to Chicago to watch a football game. A decision to stay in Washington and strategize would have saved his life, but then he would have to disappoint one of his great political supporters, Mayor Daley. The radio reports that Kennedy's advisors are planning to set up a control room under the stands of Soldier Field so he can have immediate access to breaking news about Vietnam. The flitter of 2028 claims that JFK blamed the deaths of the Diem brothers on the C.I.A. Poor JFK. He just kept shaking that C.I.A. tree—first the Bay of Pigs and now the Diem assassinations. I hope today he’s at least working with the military/industrial people. Otherwise, he’s looking like that big egg teetering on the wall. Bureaucracies, like the C.I.A. and Hoover's F.B.I., seem to live long beyond the politicians that create them. A president can only serve eight years—unless he creates a family political dynasty. Even then, he probably should make nice-nice. It’s like rock versus wind and water—who wins? Ask the sand my friend—ask the sand. But I digress.
We’re waiting for news today about JFK. I believe we did everything we could to take him out of harm’s way while concealing our status as time travelers. I hope we were successful on both accounts. The president is due to arrive in about three hours. So far we have heard nothing about a cancellation of the visit. Don’t come JFK. It's one thing to read about great tragedy and another to experience it in the flesh. For someone with my hypersensitive psychic abilities, it will be very difficult to absorb the mass depression, rage and hysteria that will be released by this event. Unchecked emotion will rain down on my head like a summer hailstorm on greenhouse glass.
A.C. Currant is in the bathtub again. I can hear him singing and splashing around. He says taking a hot bath good for his muscles and bones. I think the last few days have been a little rough on a man his age. And of course the cab ride to the bottom of the lagoon didn't help. He is amazing. Go-go-go—he's been working day and night. I should give him some bubble bath and toss a rubber ducky into his tub. Toys seem to amuse him. Like the little Mercedes Benz he always has with him. In a way, he's seems like a guy who's never really grown up—he's just a big kid.
I guess I don’t have much to say in this entry. We’re just waiting. Soon, we’ll join the Twins in their room and watch the television news together. A.C. says room service breakfast is in order. I say, let’s eat early. Later, we may not have the stomach for eating. On the other hand, we might be reveling in our success and partying all day long. Let’s hope for the latter, but if not, we’ll have to deal with the other painful possibility.
END 11-02-63
-Chapter 13-
Long Live the King
A notice flashed on the television screen: THIS IS A BULLETIN FROM NBC NEWS followed by the image of a reporter standing in front of the White House with a large handheld microphone:
“White House Press Secretary Pierre Salinger has just announced that the president’s scheduled trip to Chicago today has been cancelled. As an indication of the immediacy and spontaneity of this decision, a plane full of reporters, who would have covered JFK’s trip, is already in the air on its way to Chicago. Mr. Salinger says quote— ‘The continuing crisis in Vietnam will keep the president in Washington. Therefore the president is not going to the football game’ —end quote. In Chicago, thousands of people who intended to catch a glimpse of JFK as his motorcade passed through the city’s streets, will be disappointed. But obviously, this official business related to the Vietnam situation takes precedence. This is Sander Vanocur, NBC News reporting from the Capitol”.
Ethan switched off the television. For a few seconds, no one—not Currant, not Emma—nor Ethan said anything. Zak sat on a sofa and just smiled.
Finally Currant spoke, “Well we did it. The tragedy has been averted. My hat’s off to you Emma. Your speech to Cain must have worked. This whole Vietnam thing is a convenient excuse—but whatever.”
“Three cheers for us,” said Ethan. “We nudged the past just enough to get a different result. But one which is totally plausible.”
Emma got up and hugged A.C. Currant who seemed to be embarrassed by this show of affection. “Dr. Currant. We owe it all to the TimeTravelle and you.”
Currant smiled and did a mock bow before his subjects while Zak waved his arms about trying to get everyone’s attention. Finally, Emma looked over and translated.
“Zak says: ‘What about The History? We just changed it’.”
“This will be noticed,” said Currant slowly. “They may send someone out.” Currant ran his hands through his hair before continuing. “Who knows what effect this will have on subsequent events. Back in 2028, there is a new past starting today. Millions of decision trees are branching out in different directions. MOM will not be pleased.”
Ethan parried with his own comment, “Who cares? Someone needed to shake up the world. We know The History lied about what happened to JFK. For all we know the entire History could be filled with lies. Truth has consequences. We can deal with it.” He looked around at his sister and friends. They were quiet.
Zak absorbed the emotions and brainwaves in the air—Ethan happy with the result, Emma calculating the effects, Currant concerned about repercussions. And Zak, if he thought about himself, he would have to admit; he was pleased to move on. He really wanted to check out the rest of 1963.
Ten minutes later, Currant put in a call to Tom Quinn.
Quinn had a strange feeling after leaving the time travelers last night. He felt like a thousand pound weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn’t exactly know why, but he suspected it was because he had a rare glimpse into the real workings of the planet. It was all hit or miss he thought, things bumping into each other in the night. Planet Earth was filled with people who thought they were in control, or were convinced that others, for certain, were controlling their lives. But in fact, the world was an action-reaction contraption. People try their best to make things happen, but even when they know just about everything, even when they are certain their horse is a sure thing, even when the race is fixed in their favor, they had better hold on to their wallet, their rosary, or their crotch, because things happen. The real power some folks have is the power to rewrite history in their favor, the power to make the best of what happens. And the more money, assets, connections, and entrenched power one has, the more likely they will be able to revise the past to fit the desired future. People are short on memories and long on fear. Do what it takes. Make it work. That’s how Chicago has survived and grown over the years, he thought. That’s how the United States has survived and grown. The present is only molding clay for a future sculpture to be created by the Union of Historical Interpretation— governments, industry, financiers, bureaucracies, legal systems, politicians, good old boys, and religious groups. Newspaper reporters are not part of that group. They report what they see. And they see what they are supposed to see. That thousand pound weight was something he carried with him during the war and afterward when returned to normal life. Until last night, he thought he was responsible, in some way, for the world. Not true. I’ll work on my family and myself. Let the world take care of itself. I don’t have enough power, money or lifetimes to manage the interpretation of the past to my benefit. Who could guess what Cain would do? But if we have to depend on people like that to make the world work in our favor, we are in trouble.
Book-ending this most recent philosophical revelation, he received the JFK cancellation announcement over the newswire Teletype about a half-hour ago. He decided to call Kowalski again to see what, if anything, was happening. Maybe they caught the team of hit men. He asked the blonde to bring him a cup of coffee. He sipped the hot brew as he dialed up and connected with the Chicago cop.
“Busy day Quinn. Don’t have much time.”
“What’s up?”
“Well you bowled a strike with your guy Vallee. A couple of the boys who were tailing him made traffic stop on him earlier this morning. They saw a blade on his front seat. Gave ‘em ‘probable’ to search his car. Found 300 rounds of ammunition in the trunk. They think he was on his way to work when they caught him. Of course makes no difference now. He’d have no target. You heard—right?”
“Yeah. Trip cancelled. I caught the news. What else?”
“Well, this was before the news came in from Washington. They had Vallee here for about a half-hour. Roastin’ and toastin’. I heard him whinin’ like a baby in there. They got him to agree to let them visit his apartment. They went in. Grabbed his weapons and a ton of ammo. He’s in a holding cell now.”
Quinn thought for a moment. “Jack. Is there anybody there at his apartment now? Can you get me into his place for few minutes?”
The voice on the other side hesitated. “I dunno Tom. Everything’s really hot.”
“Jack. You owe me. Anyway—there’s no secret here. I helped put you guys in this deal didn’t I? I just want to capture the scene for posterity. I’ll be in and out in five minutes. OK?”
“OK. But we’re even after this. Meet me there at eleven sharp. I’ll give you five minutes. No photos and no one else. Just you.”
“Thanks,” said Quinn. “You’re on.”
Quinn met Jack Kowalski at Vallee’s apartment at the appointed time. There were no other cops around. Kowalski had secured a key from the janitor. He stayed in the entry vestibule and handed Quinn the key. Exactly five minutes later, Quinn returned the key.
“Find what you want?” Kowalski asked.
“Yep. I got what I needed.”
“Good. Because you’ll never print this story. I guarantee it.”
“What are you saying? This is one big story.”
Kowalski smiled. “The mayor’s gonna’ deep-six this entire event. So save your memories. This never happened.”
Quinn shook his head. “And to think I wasted my ‘Get Out of Jail’ card for nothing.
“To bad for you. We’re even now. Keep the lid on your typewriter. You’ll get a call today. Sorry my friend.”
“That’s OK Jack,” said Quinn, his eyes twinkling, “I have a football game to attend this afternoon.”
A.C. had made the request and somehow Quinn had secured five 50-yard line seats at Soldier Field for the Army-Air Force game. Zak, Emma, Ethan, Currant, and Tom Quinn sat in that order overlooking the green gridiron below. Marching bands made musical crop circles. Cheerleaders raised the crowd’s anticipation of action. Everyone sang the national anthem. Then the game began. If Kennedy had made the game, he could have handled the coin toss to the delight of the crowd. But that was all forgotten now for the thousands of cadets and Chicagoans who were here to enjoy the fall classic. Currant loved the pageantry of it all. In his mind nothing had changed. This game in 1963 no doubt looked and felt like a college game from the 1920’s. It was as timeless as the old Catholic Latin Mass. The game offered something solid, unchanging, and memorable to connect the passing years of one’s life. This was like a hot bath in nostalgia for the aging inventor.
“Thanks Tom,” said Currant over the noise of the crowd. A cool lake breeze blew across his face tempered by a peek-a-boo sun. An Army running back gained twelve yards and the military contingent surrounding them went nuts. “This means a lot to all of us. Particularly me. I lived my early life down South, and you know how we Southerners love our college ball.”
Quinn took a bite from his hot dog. “This is the life Doc.” He didn’t really understand Currant’s comment because it was drowned out by the spectator noise. But then, he turned to face A.C. and almost shouted into his ear. “I got that gizmo you wanted.” He reached into his pocket and handed a small metallic disk to Currant.
Currant pocketed it discretely. “Thanks. That’s a load off my mind.”
“What is it?
Currant didn’t want to deceive the man who had been such a help to them. He suspected Quinn knew something was different with Currant and his friends, but he had maintained silence about their unusual behavior. He guessed that reporters were something like doctors and lawyers. Certain things remained confidential. So he decided to toss him a bone. “It’s something I invented. A listening device. A very powerful one.”
“That little thing is what you used to capture the Vallee conversation?”
“Right,” answered A.C. “Small but powerful. It’s the way of the future my friend. The way of the future.”
“Speaking of future. What’s on your schedule now that the excitement is over?�
�
A.C. looked over to the Twins and Zak who were very engrossed in the game. “I think my students are going to spend the next week enjoying Chicago and seeing the sights. I’m going to leave them on their own. Later I’m going home to my childhood home.”
“Where’s that?”
“New Orleans. Well really Covington, Louisiana. The most beautiful place in the world. I’m most excited about revisiting my old home town.”
“You know what they say?” Said Quinn.
A.C. sipped from a paper cup of beer, “What’s that?”
“You can never go home again…”
“We’ll see,” said Currant. “We’ll see. Anyway what do they know?”
“You’re right about that my friend.” Quinn lifted his cup to toast. “To going home again. Enjoy the past.”
Joell Costas entered the year 1963 at Chanute Air Force Base in Rantoul, Illinois; a hinterland place located about 130 miles south of Chicago. This arrival location for Costas served his purposes well. In 1963 the base was being used as training for nuclear warhead missile silo training. It was an important and well-guarded military installation. In 1993 it was officially closed. Condemned areas left over from its previous incarnation were encapsulated. The southeast corner of the base, the Heritage Lake area, a dumping ground for toxic materials, was also the perfect choice for a time travel nexus. It was, in 2028 off-limits to everyone but The Authority, and in 1963 it was off-limits to everyone but the poison dumpers. Coincidentally, the base was the training and birthplace of the Tuskegee Airmen who achieved fame in World War II as African-American fighter pilots. Costas had good number of African-American relatives, but this fact was of little interest to him.
