Time Travel Twins (Book 1): Saving JFK

by W. Green

  “That’s what we’d like to know, Doc,” said Ferrie. “By the way, they’re not rebels. Castro led the rebellion against the people of Cuba. They're freedom fighters.”

  “Right,” agreed Currant.

  “Some of us have been busting our rears to get some kind of positive movement on this Cuba problem. You can rest assured there are good people in the government who are taking this thing seriously. Not everyone is like that shithead Bobby Kennedy and his brother. There are real patriots out there. People you can trust.”

  “I take it you don’t trust this administration?” Currant looked straight into Ferrie's coal-black eyes.

  Zak watched the men’s faces. There was no disguising their political positions. Martin’s lips curled. Ferrie’s eyes narrowed. And Banister flushed. Zak knew A.C. had raised a boil. The young man’s special emotional meter ran over the top as he sat there and sensed what they were feeling. These men must hate the Kennedys.

  “That would be an understatement, Dr. Currant,” said Banister. “Kennedy should be impeached for his actions—or should I say lack of actions—at the Bay of Pigs. And his follow-up give-away to Castro last year.”

  “We lost a lot of good men in ’61. Friends died on the beaches because of that contemptuous Harvard hack. Good men,” said Ferrie.

  Currant raised his glass. “A toast to fallen friends…”

  They all raised their glasses. With the uplift of Banister’s arm, Zak noticed a very large pistol resting ominously in a holster beneath his jacket. This is the Wild West, thought Zak. They completed the toast. The three New Orleans men were seemingly deep in thought. Zak and Currant said nothing as if not to interrupt a possible poignant moment.

  Then Martin lifted his head and spoke quite abruptly. “Three cheers for Oswald the Rabbit. May he pop out of his hole and fire the shot heard round the world.” Zak sensed an emotional vacuum waiting to be filled. It was filled immediately with a mixture of raw emotions. Martin who obviously by this time had sucked up one too many drinks looked over to Banister with fear in his eyes. Whatever he was talking about was really hot stuff. Zak had no idea what this ‘Oswald Rabbit’ signified but it was something immense to these men. Banister released vibrations of anger—from Martin overwhelming fear—from Ferrie he picked up something else—not fear or anger but real concern and compassion—but for what or who?

  “Jack...” it was one stretched out word from Banister. But as it slithered over to Martin, it carried an immense quantity of menace. The mood at the table changed very quickly from somber reflection to one of fear.

  “Sorry, Guy,” said Martin lowering his gaze in the face of the intensity of Banister’s look.

  “I’m sorry too. I’m not following this fellows,” said Currant.

  “Just a little in-joke,” replied Banister. “But it is very impolite for Jack to tell the punch line only to people that don’t know the setup.”

  “What is the setup Guy?”

  Banister thought for a moment before replying. “You remember the cartoon character Oswald the Rabbit?”

  Currant thought about it. “Little before my time, Guy. But I do. He looked like Mickey Mouse with long ears.

  “That’s right. “Old Walt’s first creation. A real moneymaker too. But Disney gave him up after he lost the rights to him and so we got Mickey Mouse. But while Oswald was around he was quite a comedy hit in the ‘20’s. Not to embarrass you, Zak, but Oswald Rabbit was known for his ability to produce other rabbits. If you know what I mean…”

  Zak nodded in acknowledgment smiling weakly.

  “Right, you get it. In the cartoons he would constantly be graced with visits from the stork—getting new bunnies just like him. Well, you might say he—you know—‘like a bunny.’ Anyway, let’s just say old Oswald knew how to replicate. So that little character has become a symbol to many around here. We’re not making rabbits, but we are giving birth to our own bunny warriors who I’m hoping will be hopping into Cuba pretty soon, if you know what I mean.”

  “Ah ha,” said Currant. “Bunny hoping all the way to Cuba.”

  “You got it, Doctor. That’s our dream. That’s what we work for. Right, boys?”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Martin, obviously relieved. “A toast to Oswald the fornicating Rabbit—sorry Zak. To all the Oswalds…”

  They toasted once again. The evening continued with nothing so interesting or intensive as the Oswald revelation. Banister eventually suggested they head out to cruise Bourbon Street with the drinks on him. But Currant demurred, citing the need for the youngster Zak to get his beauty sleep. The last words of the playwright/director Doctor Currant were to wish them all a good evening. With tears in his eyes, he gave a final toast, a plea, to have “God Bless America”. The weeklong pageant ended with an over-exuberant round of handshakes, backslaps, and thanks.

  It was almost midnight when Zak and A.C. reached the hotel. Ethan and Emma awaited them in the lobby. From there they all went up to a rooftop patio, which provided some breathing room and privacy. Sitting poolside, they relaxed and took in the gentle breeze that rippled the watery reflection of moonlight. Currant brought them up to date, providing a blow-by-blow recap of the evening out with the “Three Stooges” of New Orleans.

  “I'm sure Zak had a great time. He had Ferrie all to himself. Sorry about that, Zak. But we needed you there. What did you think about that Oswald the Rabbit story? Was that something?”

  Zak fired back in sign language. He felt tremendous fear, anticipation and anxiety in the air during that brief discussion. Oswald is very important. He read Banister’s cover-up story about Walt Disney and the multiplying rabbits as an out-and-out lie. He told them about Ferrie’s strange, almost protective emotional reaction to the Oswald incident. He also detected a mix of caustic extreme negative emotions whenever Kennedy’s name came into the conversation.

  “As I thought. Thanks, Zak.” Currant looked at the three teens. “This could be a big lead. I would like you to visit the local reference centers—libraries, newspaper morgues, whatever. See if you can find any stories about anything or person named Oswald as related to anything Cuban.”

  Emma gave him a mock salute. “Aye, aye. Commander.”

  Currant continued the thought. “Dismissed...” He added, “By the way—great acting job today for our friends. I really think his highness, The Banister, enjoyed our tribute.”

  LOG of Zak Newman

  November 15, 1963: 00:36 (Day 18 time travel)

  We have met some interesting people. They’re right out of a Dickens novel. That such people even exist in 1963 is amazing to me. So much life in their veins—they buzz around like hostile hornets on a mission to kill. They hate JFK. They love their comrades in arms. They're violent. They're idealistic. They're dangerous. What are they seeking? Do they really have the power they exhibit, or are they puppets dangling from the lifelines of their unknown masters? I guess the big question is whether their obsession with JFK—their obvious desire to see him eliminated—will lead to any action. Or are they just blowing off political steam? In the end, Ferrie tried hard to convince me they were harmless by wallpapering over their words as bullshit banter, but I doubt it. I read that this is very real to them. Are they grown men playing war or bit players in the history of the world? It doesn’t make a difference, they believe what they are doing is real and critical for their survival and the survival of the United States. For sixty-five years people thought one “lone nut” named Thomas Arthur Vallee did the unspeakable. That was a solid belief, written in stone, sold on every corner. So I would guess it’s possible another group of nuts could be doing their nutty thing—intent on killing the president. Of course in the end Vallee proved to be a patsy with a “lone nut” legend. Maybe these boys are a little further up the conspiratorial food chain, but they also have great legends that can be retold in many ways as the situation demands. Those that create The History are skilled wordsmiths trained in the art of deception.

  T
he hard-drinking Banister—former F.B.I. special agent, right-winger, and take-no-prisoners leader—is a man desperately seeking a heart attack—intense, angry, and unforgiving. Ferrie—is The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (Emma’s description). Jack Martin—is furtive, fumbling and apparently motivated to screw people at all times. Speaking of—Banister’s overly dedicated secretary will go down with the good ship Banister. And then there is this Oswald character. We don’t know what or who this is but the vibrations were way off the emotional Richter scale. There’s something there.

  Ethan is very agitated. He’s now convinced that there will be another attempt on JFK. After stopping the one in Chicago, he is now a man possessed. Emma is more sanguine. Not that she does not care, but I think she realizes that we time travelers are not really the repair crew for the broken promises of history. And A.C. Currant—he seems really detached lately. Sure he scripted and directed the past week’s New Orleans charade party, but something about him tells me that the whole JFK aspect of our visit here plays a distant second to his personal historical issues. Just my reading —but it is very intense. Much like Banister, Currant is battling his own demons. I have never seen him like this before. He has that little toy car that he is constantly massaging in his fingers like a worry bead. From day one, he has had that commemorative trinket with him. I notice when he unconsciously handles it a certain calmness lays over him as if it was a magical mojo. There is something special about it. Of that I am certain.

  END 11-15-63

  -Chapter 17-

  The Other Brothers

  Currant peered out the cab window and let the passing view wash over him. Covington, Louisiana, 26 miles north of New Orleans across Lake Pontchartrain, his boyhood home of 6,754 citizens felt familiar and strange at once. Everything was exactly as he remembered it—yet not. His memories were warm, fuzzy and plastic. The reality was cool, hard-edged and rigid. Not unpleasant, but much different as viewed through his 73 year old eyes. A Sinclair gas station featuring its green dinosaur logo looking back over his shoulder reminded Currant he was doing the same—looking back into the time of his youth, staring the past in the face. He begged the gods of time to allow him to make a difference. He wanted to forever alter the Currant family album starting today November 16, 1963. JFK was important to the Twins and Zak, to the history of America, to the people who shot him, to his wife and kids, but Currant's half-brother, Patrick Brennan was vitally important to him and his parents. The scientist felt like that dinosaur—old and obsolete, but looking backwards with hope. The cab crossed some railroad tracks and a distant memory of his brother Patrick bounced around his head.

  Patrick’s death mask appeared before him. Sixteen years old, cold, pale, fresh, and angular. He was eight years older than A.C. and he was in a coffin. He killed himself in the middle of the night in the garage. Going nowhere, he drove to his death in dad’s ’56 Ford—March 9, 1964. He left behind his troubles which no doubt seemed overwhelming at the time, and his family. That morning his mother found him—his lips cherry red. She was devastated. It took weeks for her to stop crying. A.C. remembered her sitting on Patrick's bed, even years later, sobbing quietly in the dark. He left her alone. He was only a young boy then, but he knew she was broken. Dad was broken and he was broken. Patrick had been the shining light beaming toward the future. He was smart, ambitious, and fearless. But he was also sensitive and caring. Currant also remembered the day their cat Harriet died. A car had run over the yellow tabby. She loved to just sit in the middle of the road and think, or whatever cats do, when they just sit and stare deeply into the night. That night Patrick found A.C. standing in the street next to the squashed feline. He shoveled the remains off the pavement and escorted his little brother into their backyard for the burial services. It was all formal and proper. Patrick dug a grave, gently placed the pussycat parts into the ground, said a small prayer and sent her on her way to kitty heaven. He hugged A.C. and assured him they would all reunite sometime in the future. He was right.

  About two blocks from the house, Currant asked the cab driver to stop. He would walk the rest of the way. Large trees arched over the street and provided cozy cover. Bright sun sifted though the leafy green ceiling spilling and daubing yellow onto the sidewalk. His thoughts drifted. At this moment, he was a man between two times—two epochs seemingly so far apart, yet separated only by 65 years of unremitting progress and change—enough change to destroy any connection to Currant’s boyhood past. Nothing in 2028 was the same as this. This is the peace of peace—the sweet, soft, silk-covered cushion of a time lost—a time of innocence, hope and positive expectation. He looked about and let it all in—the tidy, little bungalows—bright, two-tone automobiles parked in driveways—dads washing their cars—a few kids playing baseball in a vacant lot. He walked along slowly in a daze pausing briefly when a big black dog casually approached him and sniffed his crotch for signs of life—finding none, it wandered away. Tree branches above rustled in the breeze, while the hypnotic sounds of push lawn mowers, out for a final season trim, created an almost musical background.

  Then he saw her in the distance. His mother—working behind the white picket backyard fencing, standing on a slight rise in the land, her wicker laundry basket at her feet, expertly pinning bed sheets onto the clothesline. They flapped in the light wind waiting for their wetness to be sucked out by the sun. Currant remembered the smell of clean dry sheets fresh off the clothesline and onto his bed. That fragrance was his last thought before falling fast asleep, oblivious to the world’s problems, bone tired from playing, and always anticipating the next day's adventures. His mother was raven-haired and quite beautiful, he thought. He had never viewed her as a woman, but now as she stretched to hang the wash, wearing a bright blue blouse and well-fitting blue jeans, he saw that she was a real woman of considerable attraction. The thoughts confused him. Quickly, he tightened his thinking. He stood about fifteen feet away, alone on the sidewalk—a man in his mid-seventies who, because of advances in healthcare, nutrition, and diet, appeared to be in his late-forties by 1963 standards. She turned his way and spotted him. He was, at once, unable to come to his thoughts. He was stunned by the moment. A yellow cat ran up to him. He looked down at it as it rubbed his leg.

  “She doesn’t usually take to strangers, mister. I guess you’re lucky—if you like cats.” Her voice had a pleasant Southern softness but still betrayed her East Coast roots.

  His mother smiled, a flight of sunlight caught her face, and she appeared like an angel to Currant. He picked up the cat and looked back at his mother. The last time he saw her—she was dead. By then his brother and father were also dead. He was stunned to be this close to her again, but he resisted his emotions. He held the cat tenderly, lovingly—a willing surrogate accepting his love and attention.

  “Hello Harriet,” he whispered softly into her ear. The cat purred. He looked back at his mother. “Beautiful day isn’t it,” he said dumbly. She didn’t seem to mind.

  “I am impressed, sir. You have a way with animals.”

  “I do like cats,” he said. He walked onto the grass, up the rise, close to her but separated by the white pickets. He let the cat down gently and it skittered over the fence and back into the yard soon studying a nested bird in a nearby tree.

  “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

  “How do you do?” he said quietly. “My name is Crawford. I used to live here many years ago. I’ve come back to revisit my old neighborhood—trip down memory lane if you will. In fact, I lived in this same house when I was a child. So you must forgive me if I appear attached.” Tears welled up in his eyes until they could no longer be contained and they slid down his cheeks just enough to be noticed by the woman. He pulled out a handkerchief from his coat pocket and touched up his face quickly. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I am bit taken by the moment.”

  She ignored the basket of wash and came up to him looking directly into his eyes. “My name is Mary—Mary Currant. Funny, I feel as if I know yo
u. When did you live here?”

  A.C. stumbled on his words. He focused on her beautiful, soft brown eyes. “About twenty-five years ago. It’s been a long time. I must say you have made it quite attractive.”

  “Thanks. My husband and I try hard to make it the best we can.”

  Then Currant heard a noise behind him. He turned and saw two boys on a red Cushman motor scooter. He recognized them. Patrick was driving and he, the little tow-headed Arthur C. Currant, sat on the seat in front nestled between his brother’s arms. The machine drove into the driveway and stopped. In almost one motion the two boys jumped off. The older one locked in the kickstand while the little one ran ahead through the gate into the yard. He raced to his mother and hugged her. The old A.C. was astounded by himself. What a beautiful little guy—blue jeans, striped polo shirt, white socks and completely ratty, brown leather shoes. He held a rolled up comic book in his hand. If he only knew how valuable that twelve-cent comic would be sixty-five years later, thought Currant. Then he realized how ridiculous that thought was. Little A.C. cared nothing about investments, but he loved the stories about mad scientists, robots and gadgets.

  “This is Mr. Crawford, A.C.,” she said casually. “ He lived here many years ago.”

  The young A.C. studied the older. “Hi.”

  “Hi. New comic book?”

  “Yep. Batman. It’s all about aliens. Men from Mars.”

  “Sounds really cool to me,” said the older A.C.

  “Yep.”

  A.C. looked up at his mother. “Fine boy you have here. And this is another son?” he said turning to his older brother. A.C. quietly admired the tall, lean and fine-featured young man.

  She smiled. “I have two wonderful boys. This is Patrick.”

  A.C. looked at Patrick and then shook his hand. “Glad to meet you.”

  “Patrick’s going to be a doctor,” said the younger son.