by Rysa Walker
That saddens me a lot more than I thought it would when I moved here back in August. Yes, this house is much too large for one person, and yes, it’s a bit lonely sometimes. But I feel more at peace here than I have in a very long while, possibly because there is an entire ocean separating me from the ongoing Grace family drama.
“The neighborhood was rezoned for mixed development decades ago,” I continue. “So a few years from now, this house and yard will be either an apartment building or an office complex like the one next door. My great-grandfather was exempted from the zoning—”
“Let me guess,” Jack says with a grin. “A grandfather clause?”
Alex rolls his eyes. He’s right. It’s a dumb joke, but I can’t help a small chuckle. Jack’s grin is contagious.
“Exactly. But Grandpa James’s exemption won’t transfer to a new buyer. So goodbye yard, hello hi-rise.”
“Couldn’t you make a case for historical preservation?” Jack asks.
“Theoretically, yes. But the current state of my family’s finances means we’ll be looking for the highest bidder, and I suspect that will be a commercial developer.”
Eighteen months ago, before my father died and my mother took over as the family’s financial manager, Jack’s suggestion would have been a viable option. Her role was supposed to be a temporary arrangement until we could hire a firm to handle everything. I actually lobbied for it to be permanent, since my mom had worked with my father for years and I thought she would understand things better than a stranger. Nora, my grandmother, nixed that idea, and in retrospect, she was right. My mom took some horribly bad advice, made some truly unwise investments, and at the end of her reign of financial terror, this land, this house, and the contents of the library upstairs are pretty much all that is left from the estate of my great-grandfather James Lawrence Coleman, one of the most renowned and controversial authors of the past century.
I had three primary reasons for returning to the United States to finish my master’s degree. The first is that Coleman lived in this house, and his library is a veritable treasure trove of information about his life. The second is that Georgetown University agreed to waive my tuition for the next two years, an offer I really couldn’t ignore given our financial situation. The tuition waiver is partly because they’re interested in my research. Many scholars have written about Coleman, but none have had unfettered access to his papers and diaries—documents that were willed, along with this house, to Nora, as his only living child. The thing that clinched the tuition deal with Georgetown was our promise to turn all correspondence and manuscripts over to their archives once I have them organized and, with any luck, have landed a publisher for the definitive biography of James Coleman—penned by yours truly, Madison E. Grace.
My third task is selling the house, but that’s last on the agenda, both because his library is here and because I need a place to live. Nora kept meaning to put the place on the market after her father died, but it sat empty for years because she couldn’t bring herself to deal with the task. She just hired a maintenance service and put it out of her mind. I guess, in the end, that was a stroke of good fortune for me. The place is a bit creaky, but it was built in 1997, so that’s to be expected. Great-Grandpa James had it renovated, but that was over forty years ago, so the decor is dated and the appliances are archaic. But he added a swimming pool in the basement, and that earns him forgiveness for a multitude of sins. Plus, the library is like something out of a storybook, if you can look past the clutter, which is honestly still a bit difficult to do, even after several days of going through boxes and assorted debris. I actually found an antique pearl-handled pistol in one of the desk drawers, along with several boxes of ammunition. Even the computers are clogged with ancient, disorganized files and random programs, with cryptic names like Totals or Anomalies. Some of them are so old I have no clue how to delete them. The man was a literal and virtual pack rat.
“I’m impressed at what you’ve done with the yard,” Jack says. “You should have seen it, Alex. Grass up to your knees. Did you do it all on your own?”
I laugh. “Most of it. Although you say that as though I got down on hands and knees to trim each blade of grass. There’s a practically new GardenGenieXL in the garage. It’s an older model, but all I had to do was program in the specs and move some of the larger branches.”
“Still, you should have called. We’d have been happy to help.”
By which Jack means he would have been happy. Alex rarely ventures out of his lab during daylight hours, so I’m quite certain he’d have passed on any invitation that included yard work.
When Alex is a few paces ahead of us, Jack leans a bit closer and whispers, “I like the dress. Didn’t know you were into vintage. But I kind of miss the blue streaks in your hair.”
I smile and my cheeks grow warm. The dress is a bit much for a casual dinner with friends. I probably look like I’m trying way too hard to impress. But there’s no point in explaining that more casual attire would be horribly out of place for where—and when—I’ll be going shortly. Neon hair accents would probably get me arrested. Jack will understand soon enough.
We pass the small work shed, which is in dire need of an overhaul. That’s one project I really should hire a professional to deal with. It’s not the sort of thing that can be handled by automated help, and I’ve never hammered a nail in my life. But there’s a part of me that wants to get out here and give it a try. I suspect it’s the same part of me that wanted to plant the garden we’re walking toward, even though it’s a bit late in the season. In fact, it’s probably the same part of me that’s eager to take on pretty much any side project that doesn’t require me to be in the library upstairs working on my thesis.
The garden stretches for a few meters just inside the fence that surrounds the property. A small greenhouse encases rows of seedlings, mostly tomatoes and herbs. All of the plants look a little anemic, and I make a mental note to ensure that I have the atmospheric controls set properly.
I point toward the mound of earth. “For the garden, however, I did have to get my hands dirty. And it’s a good thing, because I doubt the GenieXL would have made this discovery. Hold out your hand, Jack.”
After pulling the wafer-thin medallion from my pocket, I center it on his palm. There’s a tingle when my fingers brush his skin, but that has absolutely nothing to do with this medallion and everything to do with the kiss we shared two nights ago.
I push those thoughts firmly aside and take a step back as he looks down at the medallion.
“And what exactly am I holding?” Jack’s smile seems a bit forced.
“What do you see?”
“Um . . . I see a bronze circle. There’s an hourglass in the middle.”
“Does the sand in the hourglass move back and forth?”
“No. It’s etched into the metal, along with these . . . spokes, I guess?” He holds it away from his body, clearly eager to get rid of it.
“I’ve seen the design before,” Alex says. “It’s a religious pendant for the Cyrists. My aunt used to be a member. Where did you find it?”
“Right there. Under the tomato seedlings. Well, under where the tomato seedlings are now. So . . . you don’t see an orange light, Jack?”
Jack shakes his head. “No orange light. What’s this all about, Madi?”
“Just bear with me, okay? Let Alex try.”
He hands Alex the medallion, and I repeat the questions I asked Jack. Alex looks at me like I’ve gone entirely insane, and I haven’t even reached the truly crazy part.
I take the medallion back from Alex and place it in my own hand. “To be honest, I was hoping that one of you could activate this. It would make explanations a lot easier. But, here goes. This medallion—which is apparently called a CHRONOS key, at least by a group of Cyrists in 1906—doesn’t look bronze to me at all. It’s a vibrant, glowing orange. You could put it in your pocket and I’d still be able to see the light. I stuck it under one of the
sofa cushions this morning, and I could see amber light peeking out around the edges.” I nudge the medallion with one finger to center it in my palm. “When I hold it like this, an interface pops up with rows of tiny video screens. I thought it was a virtual-reality game at first, but then I made the mistake of blinking on one of those screens and very nearly drowned just off the coast of Florida. In 1906.”
Alex laughs. It’s a friendly, uncomplicated laugh that obviously translates as good one, guys, you got me. Jack is also laughing, but his laughter sounds a bit more nervous. He’s probably thinking back to Friday night and wondering how he can gracefully back out of any future involvement with a crazy woman.
“Okay, now that you’ve both had your little joke on the temporal physicist,” Alex says, “I think I will take that drink you offered.”
He starts to walk back toward the house, but I call him back. “It’s not a joke, Alex. And Jack doesn’t know any more than you do. Hold on for a moment, okay? I’m going to bring back some proof.”
I pull up the interface, locate the stable point for Harlem, New York, and set the date for October 24, 1929, at 16:03. When I’m certain that both of them are looking directly at me, I blink.
This is the third time I’ve traveled to this particular spot, but the traffic noise that assaults my ears is still a shock. I don’t know much about the vehicles people drove in the early twentieth century, but I can now say for certain that they were horribly loud. Smelly, too. It’s better than the first time I blinked in, thanks to the rainstorm that cleared the air a bit, but the alley still reeks of fuel, with a faint undertone of trash.
I chose this specific date because it’s around the time of the stock market crash that’s generally viewed as the beginning of the first Great Depression. I picked this time because it’s a period when the alley is empty. And I picked the specific location because out of the various places I’ve visited today, it puts me closest to a newsstand.
The first time I jumped here was simply to scout things out. I stood at the edge of the alley and watched for about five minutes, medallion in hand, ready to jump home if I attracted too much attention. What surprised me most—aside from the noise and the smell—was the vivid color. I know that’s stupid. On a strictly rational level, I understand that life didn’t play out in black and white or sepia tones in the early twentieth century. But that’s how it always seemed in books and movies. The color around me made everything feel surreal, like I wasn’t in the past at all, but simply watching some odd historical reenactment.
The other surprise was the realization that if I was going to spend any time in the past, I’d need clothes and money. I’ve heard Nora talk about carrying cash, but all of my financial transactions are handled by a comm-band on my wrist, which I’ve worn since I was a kid.
The credits on my comm-band are far more limited now than at any other time in my life, so the money situation required a bit of creative thinking. When I got back from my scouting trip to 1929, I located an antique shop in Baltimore that deals in both rare books and old currency. The owner was willing to exchange a few books for two twenties and a handful of coins from the 1910s. In fact, he seemed to think he’d gotten the better end of our trade, and perhaps he did. One of the perks of inheriting the house where the late, great James Coleman lived and worked is that I have several other signed copies of the books I traded. In fact, there are a few dozen boxes of books autographed by my great-grandfather. He didn’t do many signings in person after the scandal, so those books are probably worth quite a bit.
Once I had old hard cash in hand, I jumped back to 1929 and bought this dress and a hat for just under five dollars. My plan is to sell back the change to that same antique dealer, hopefully for more than I paid for the antique twenties. I believe he’ll agree that the smaller denomination bills the store clerk gave me as change are in amazingly good condition for having been printed two centuries ago.
I tuck the medallion into the bodice of my new dress. It’s much closer to what the women are wearing than what I wore on my original jump, but I’m wishing I’d bought something thicker. The orange light of the medallion is still clearly visible through the fabric. Jack and Alex apparently can’t see it, and the woman I met in 1906 made it sound as though that’s true for most people. But I make a mental note to devise some sort of pouch to hide the thing better, and maybe get a chain to secure it. If someone decides to snatch it while I’m traveling, I’ll be totally screwed.
That thought freezes me in place for a moment, as I’m hit by the weight of what I’m doing. Either I’m two hundred years in the past and fully reliant on a gadget that I barely know how to use to get me home, or else I’ve gone entirely mad and this is all in my head.
The second possibility scares me far more than the first. I need outside confirmation that I’m not insane. I need someone to believe me, which means I need proof.
A kid on a bicycle whizzes past me in the alley, splashing my shoes and reminding me that standing here thinking about my dilemma isn’t going to solve a damn thing. I make it to the newsstand without attracting attention and quickly browse the newspaper headlines. After a few minutes, I select the Brooklyn Daily Eagle. It’s not a paper I’ve heard of, but the headline is perfect—WALL ST. IN PANIC AS STOCKS CRASH, and just below, Attempt Made to Kill Italy’s Crown Prince.
The outside of the newsstand is plastered with advertisements for cigarettes and snack foods. One ad, for a beverage called Dr. Pepper, shows a couple at a table with the caption Drink a Bite to Eat at 10, 2 & 4 O’Clock. On a whim, I order a bottle and grab a chocolate bar as well.
“Where you from, miss?” The vendor takes his time opening the soda, and his eyes keep moving from my face to my chest as I search among my coins for two dimes. Can he see the light from the medallion, or is he simply checking out what Nora refers to as my rack, which I guess was the polite term for breasts back in the 2080s?
He hands me the bottle and my change. “Your accent, I mean. It don’t sound like—”
“Just outside of London.” That’s partly true. I’ve spent nearly as much time in the US. We lived in Colorado until I was in my teens, and I spent most summers at the shore house near Dublin, where Nora lives now, or at her house in London. But regardless of whether the man is staring at the CHRONOS key inside my dress or the breasts inside my dress, I really don’t want to get bogged down in a conversation with him. The oddness of my accent is probably even more attributable to a two-century time difference than to the fact that I’ve lived in the UK.
I scoop up my purchases and say, “Have a good . . . one.”
Did people actually say that in 1929? I have no idea, so I hurry back to the alley and pull up the stable point that I set earlier near the work shed in the backyard. I can see myself, Jack, and Alex talking near the garden plot, so I skip forward until I disappear, add another ten seconds, and blink in.
Jack and Alex are still staring at the spot where I was standing.
“Over here.”
Poor Alex startles so badly that I feel guilty.
“I’m sorry. I should have set another point closer to the garden.”
“Where the hell did you go?” he asks.
“Yeah. One second you were right there and—” Jack breaks off and looks nervously toward the shed.
“New York. 1929. I bought snacks and reading material.” I hand the newspaper and candy to Alex and take a swig of the soda. “Oh dear God, that’s much too sweet. I feel like I need to shave the sugar off my tongue. Want to try it?”
Jack takes the bottle I’m holding and sniffs. “Despite your ringing endorsement, I think I’ll pass.”
Alex stares at the newspaper. He’s gone so pale that I’m a little concerned he might pass out. “Okay,” he says. “I don’t know how you did that disappearing thing, or where you got this paper, but the joke’s over. It’s not even that original. Everybody thinks it’s funny to pull a time-travel punk on temporal physicists. But our lab is one of the t
op research facilities in the world. We’ve made some progress—more than we usually let on, to be honest—but we’re nowhere near this level. So this has to be a stunt.”
“It’s not a stunt. If you need more proof, you can pick the date this time. Although it probably needs to be within the same decade, or I’ll have to get different currency and different clothes . . .”
But I’m talking to his back. Alex is already halfway to the patio.
Jack stares at me for a moment. I can’t tell if he’s mad or just confused. Then he takes off after Alex. I’m not sure what he says, but Alex stops, and when I catch up with the two of them, Jack gestures toward the house. “Let’s go inside and have that drink while we sort all this out.”
None of us is especially hungry yet, but I grab three glasses and the bottle of Shiraz I uncorked earlier. Jack takes a plate from the cabinet and begins slicing the Baby Ruth bar.
Alex watches him with one eyebrow raised, which I completely get. Who the hell slices a candy bar?
Jack catches our expression. “Hey, I’m just following the instructions.” He nods toward the red-and-white wrapper, and sure enough, it says Slice and Serve for All Occasions. “I didn’t want to ruin the fancy appetizer you’ve apparently brought all the way from 1929.”
There’s a note to his voice that troubles me, and a slight emphasis on the word apparently. The truth is, I can’t read Jack well enough yet to tell whether he believes me. We’ve been friends since I arrived on campus back in August, but that’s still only a few months. Like me, Jack Merrick is working on a master’s in history. Like me, he’s new in town. But unlike me, Jack is not an introvert. He has excellent social skills. Thanks to his intervention, I’ve actually met some people, including Alex, who is Jack’s roommate, and a few of the other graduate students in the history department.
It’s been nice having a companion for lunch the two days a week I’m on campus. It’s been nice having him drag me out of the house most weekends. We have similar interests, and he’s easy to talk to, especially since he understands firsthand the pain of losing a parent. His mom died when he was twelve. But I didn’t figure out that his interest was romantic until he leaned in for a kiss when he dropped me off two nights ago. Nora once said that any guy who was interested in me would have to launch a full advertising campaign, complete with flashing lights, before I’d catch on. I thought I’d gotten a bit better at picking up on these things, but Friday’s experience suggests that I have not.
