Now, Then, and Everywhen (Chronos Origins)

by Rysa Walker

  “You didn’t grow out of it as much as you might think. Every time you use that key, you’re taking a huge risk. I think there’s still a lot of Max in there.”

  I smile. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  We focus on our food for a few minutes, watching the sunset through the branches of the ancient white oak.

  “How long do oak trees live?” I wonder aloud.

  Jack has no clue, so I ask Jarvis, who gives me a range from around 150 to 300 years.

  “What’s with the interest in . . . is it called arboriculture?”

  “I guess? It’s not the tree itself,” I say, “although it’s pretty impressive. I was just thinking that my great-great-great-great-grandmother might have sat here watching a sunset over a smaller version of that tree. That it could have been here even before she . . .”

  “What?” Jack asks when I trail off.

  “Hold on. I’m going to try something.”

  “You’re not planning to use that key again, are you?”

  “Not to jump.” I walk out to the tree. “I’m just curious.”

  I set a stable point a few yards in front of the oak, and then join Jack at the table again.

  After some quick mental math, I change the year to 2015, which I think is the year the house was purchased by my ancestor Katherine Shaw, Nora’s great-great grandmother. As expected, the tree was already in the yard. It was still fairly tall back then, but nowhere near as wide.

  Leaving the current time, month, and day in place, I scroll the years backward.

  “What exactly are you doing?” Jack asks.

  I feel a bit guilty, since he can’t see what I’m seeing. Even if he could use the device, he wouldn’t be able to see it while I’m using it, based on what June, the Cyrist doctor, told me after I washed up on Estero Island. He probably feels like I’m ignoring him. But my curiosity is stronger than my urge to be polite, even to Jack.

  “Just checking in on my family,” I tell him. “It hadn’t even occurred to me that I could use this thing to see them. Not just here, but in the house, too.”

  “Please tell me you’re not planning to contact them. I’m new to this whole time-travel thing, but even I know that’s a bad idea. You could . . . erase yourself. Or something.”

  “I’m not planning to jump. I’ll just watch them through the key without interacting.”

  Jack laughs. “You have time-travel technology, and you’re planning to use it to spy on your great-greats? Have you ever talked to anyone about these voyeuristic tendencies?”

  I can tell he’s teasing, but my face still grows warm. “I don’t plan to set stable points in the bedrooms or the baths.”

  “That might be safe with a boring family like mine. But are you sure your ancestors confined their sex lives to the bedroom?”

  “I’m not,” I tell him, now scrolling the days of 2015 backward. It’s clear that the house is occupied, because the porch light flickers on and off as I go through. “But I’m also not enough of a prude to let that remote possibility bother me. The people in these images have been dead for many years.”

  As I speak, I keep watching the small image, which suddenly comes to life. A bright-green something sails through the air, landing on the lawn just past the oak. Is it a bird? Or maybe a moth? I don’t think so, though. The shape seems too regular.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” Jack asks around a bite of noodles.

  “No. Just . . . whoa.”

  A large reddish-brown mass blocks my view of the green shape on the lawn. It eclipses everything for a moment, and then I’m able to make it out as a dog. A fairly large dog, with an auburn coat—either a retriever or an Irish setter. The green shape, which I can now identify as a disk-shaped toy, is clasped in its mouth as its tail wags wildly.

  But my eyes are drawn to a different disk, attached to the dog’s collar. A disk that glows bright orange.

  “I really, really wish you could see this, Jack. Can you think of any logical reason for a dog to wear a time-travel device?”

  FROM THE NEW YORK DAILY INTREPID (JANUARY 20, 1960)

  Wrestler Sputnik Monroe Charged with Disorderly Conduct; Hires Negro Attorney

  (Memphis, Tenn.) Roscoe Monroe Brumbaugh, better known as “Sputnik Monroe,” was charged with disorderly conduct last week for drinking beer in a Negro cafe. He appeared in court represented by a Negro attorney, Russell B. Sugarmon. The wrestler, formerly known as “Rock” Monroe, has gained a degree of notoriety for his protests against segregation of wrestling audiences over the past few years. One of these protests earned him the nickname “Sputnik” when he appeared at a Mobile, Alabama TV studio in 1957 with a black hitchhiker he’d picked up and asked to work temporarily as his driver, a few months after the USSR launched its satellite by that name. A woman who was offended by his open friendship with the Negro said she called him the worst name she could think of, “Sputnik,” and it stuck.

  After moving to Memphis in 1959, Monroe has waged an ongoing effort to prevent Ellis Auditorium from restricting Negro patrons to the small balcony often called a “crow’s nest,” turning them away when the seats in that section were full, even if the main auditorium had empty seats. Monroe argued that this cut into his profits and those of the auditorium, since there are always more Negro patrons than white ones at his wrestling matches. The auditorium relented last year.

  Monroe and his companion, another white wrestler, were fined $26 each for the offense. The cafe owner, who claimed that the two had not been sold beer but were simply there giving out passes to their show, was warned by the City Licensing Commission that his license was at risk if it happened again.

  ∞7∞

  TYSON

  MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE

  AUGUST 19, 1966

  There is exactly a thirty-four-second break in the traffic on this side of the building. The alley provides a bit of cover, but there’s still some risk of being seen. Since thirty-four seconds is cutting it a bit close for a four-person jump, we split into two groups. A few seconds after Katherine moves out of the stable point, I blink in, and follow her over to the sidewalk. In about three minutes, there will be two shorter breaks. Richard and Saul will join us then.

  Rich has been in a foul mood for the past few days. While he’s definitely interested in the substance of this research, and very much looking forward to seeing the Beatles on the next leg of the trip, the key reason he proposed this joint project was to score some quality almost-alone time with Katherine, and that’s not happening now. After we returned from our last jump, Katherine shared the details of the KKK rally with Saul. The very next day, Angelo told Rich that Saul Rand was being added as a fourth member of the project, given that there were significant areas of overlap with his field. Angelo didn’t seem particularly happy about it, so I’m guessing Saul pulled strings with one of the other committee members. The Rand family has money and influence, and Saul is perfectly willing to use family connections to get his way.

  I don’t want Saul tagging along any more than Rich does. He’s a narcissistic asshole. Frankly, I’m surprised that he passed the personality tests that determine whether an agent is allowed in the field or remains at CHRONOS HQ as an analyst. If I were in charge of things, he would be parked behind a desk, and I’m not the only person who feels that way. One of the historians who trained him pushed to have him benched, and Delia and Abel, two members of his cohort, seem to lean in that direction as well.

  But I’m not in charge, and to be fair, I have to admit the events we’re studying do indeed dovetail with Saul’s focus on religious history. The religious angle is being pumped up by the Klan and other groups to cloak their real reasons for opposing this tour by the Beatles, but it’s still a factor.

  Katherine leans back against the red-and-silver telephone booth on the corner while we wait and surveys the area around the auditorium. “You’ve been in Memphis before, haven’t you, Tyce?”

  “Yeah. This
stable point, actually. A David Bowie concert in 1972.”

  She gives me a vague smile, leaving little doubt in my mind that she has absolutely no idea who David Bowie was. Admittedly, I wouldn’t know that, either, if I had a different roommate.

  “That was one of my training jumps with Rich,” I say. “Good concert. And then we came back a few months ago to see Elvis in ’56. How about you?”

  “First time.” A faint breeze pulls a strand of her blond hair from the twin ponytails CHRONOS costuming created for this event. She tucks the hair back into place and sniffs the humid air. “Is Memphis always this . . . pungent?”

  She’s right. The acrid stench of asphalt mingles uneasily with stagnant water from Wolf River Harbor and the swampy stretch of land on the other side. It’s cooling off a bit now that the sun is going down, but it was close to ninety degrees earlier in the day, and the air is still hot and muggy. Having had my fill of summers in the South, I pushed to jump in later, after the event starts. But that would have been a fairly short trip, and this way we can roam around a bit, maybe talk to some of the attendees before the doors open at eight.

  This section of downtown Memphis is in a state of constant construction for most of the mid-twentieth century. The stable point we just used is blocked—literally blocked—after 1973 by a giant concrete support for the new bridge that will span not just the smelly harbor and the island, but the Mississippi River beyond. Things will begin looking up a few decades from now, when the strip of land across the harbor will be turned into a rather nice park—or at least it looks nice in the pictures I pulled up during my research for this jump. At the moment, though, it’s abundantly clear why the place is called Mud Island.

  “Maybe the Coliseum will be better,” Katherine says. “It’s about six miles inland, right?”

  “Yeah, but it will also be more crowded. And if you think that will be an improvement, you’ve never been in an auditorium full of teenagers. In August. In the South.” I laugh. “We’ll be wishing we were back here by the time the concert is over.”

  Katherine looks a good ten years younger tonight than she did at the Klan rally. Her face is makeup-free, aside from a bit of pale-pink lipstick, and she’s wearing a knee-length pleated skirt and a sleeveless blouse in a loud plaid print. Even in the period clothing and ponytails, which aren’t exactly flattering, she’s attractive. A bit too porcelain doll for my taste, but that’s probably just as well, since the two guys who will be blinking in any second now will be trying to one-up each other all night. I wish I had the courage to tell Rich what everyone else can see. He needs to move on. Saul and Katherine played coy for months due to their age difference before finally making their relationship public, but everyone knew. Angelo reportedly gave them hell about fraternizing, but I think the die was cast as soon as she was assigned as Saul’s research partner. Poor Rich never stood a chance.

  Katherine baffles me, though. You’d think someone who studies civil rights movements, including feminist groups, would see through Saul. That she’d stand up to him and wouldn’t make stupid excuses for his bad behavior. But she’s truly blind where he’s concerned. I hope to hell I never fall so hard for someone that I lose all sense of judgment.

  “At least we’re spared the toxic fumes of burning vinyl this time,” Katherine says, then frowns. “Saul was really unhappy to have missed the South Carolina rally, you know. I wish you guys had told me that the project had such a strong religious component. It’s not like he can just drop in later. The rally was small enough that we’d almost certainly see him and end up with double memories.”

  “Guess we just weren’t thinking of it in terms of religion,” I say, hoping she doesn’t spot the lie. “You know how it is. I study race, so I see the racial aspects. You probably spot gender issues first. And Rich is mostly interested in the music. Classic case of historical tunnel vision.”

  Katherine nods. “True. And speaking of music, Richard will probably be wishing he’d waited and joined us at the concert. I think it’s a safe bet that the music at this rally won’t be memorable.”

  This particular jump to Memphis was added at Saul’s request. Rich and I found out about the addition at the same time we learned Saul was being added to the team. As usual, Saul wasn’t content with merely joining the project, but insisted on everyone else catering to his whims. We were initially planning to do a bonfire in Texas, instead. I guess Rich and I can schedule it at a later time, but I can’t blame Richard for feeling like Saul is usurping the whole project at this point. The Beatles concert, which will be starting shortly across town, was obviously on the agenda from the beginning, but this event, dubbed the Memphis Christian Youth Rally, is kind of peripheral. There’s no indication of Klan involvement, so I’m not sure I’ll get much of anything for my own research. And the music will, as Katherine suggested, almost certainly suck.

  The event was organized by local pastor Jimmy Stroud as an alternative for Christian teens, once it became clear that the Memphis City Council wasn’t actually going to force the Coliseum to cancel the Beatles concert. Stroud originally promised to pack the local football stadium with teens who preferred Jesus to John, Paul, George, and Ringo. As estimates of the crowd size dwindled, however, the event was moved to Ellis Auditorium, just down the block from this stable point. They’ll get a decent turnout, but nothing close to the number they’d hoped, and Rev. Stroud himself will even have to acknowledge that the Beatles were the bigger draw.

  Two couples cross the street up ahead, signaling the next short break in foot traffic. A few seconds after they pass the stable point, Saul blinks in. He’s dressed in the standard white-guy summer uniform, just as Bob Scoggin and his fellow Klansman were when they intercepted me outside the courthouse in Spartanburg. In fact, Saul looks a bit like Scoggin right now. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t been in 1960s attire, with his dark hair slicked down tight against his head, but it’s not just the trappings. There’s also something about his expression and the set of his jaw.

  Saul places a proprietary hand on Katherine’s waist and whispers something I don’t catch. She blushes and gives him a tiny dig with her elbow, just as Rich jumps in. He quickly looks the other way, managing to keep his jealousy fairly well hidden—just that downward quirk of the mouth that I know means he’d really love to punch something right about now.

  As we approach the corner, half a dozen or so adults walk past. A gaggle of teens trails behind them, with the boys in one cluster at the front, followed by a slightly larger group of girls. One of the guys turns back as they pass us and yells, “Hey, Carol!” This is followed by a very poor rendition of the last line of “I Want to Hold Your Hand.”

  The girl makes a gesture I can’t see from this angle, but judging from the hoots of the other guys and the shocked expression of the girl standing next to her, I doubt it was the peace sign.

  Richard catches the exchange, too, and laughs. “Guessing the Memphis Jesus rally was not Carol’s first choice of entertainment this evening.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” I say. “I mean, who would pass up the chance to meet Dennis the Menace?”

  None of the others had the slightest clue who or what Dennis the Menace was until I explained it. That’s one of the advantages to focusing on a specific time in history, rather than jumping all over the place. I’m the only one out of the four of us who can sing the theme song from Gilligan’s Island or The Beverly Hillbillies. Which will probably never come up, but in this era, you’d be a little suspect if you didn’t at least recognize them. Pop culture matters.

  The performer that Rev. Stroud booked to be the Christian alternative to the Fab Four is a teen actor, Jay North, who is best known for playing this Dennis character on a television show a few years back. One of the sources in our archives said Dennis the Menace doesn’t even show up for the rally. But either way, the preacher seriously miscalculated the actor’s appeal. The Beatles’ two shows at Mid-South Coliseum will pull in nearly twen
ty thousand fans at $5.50 a ticket—which is roughly the price of a top-notch filet mignon dinner at a five-star restaurant in 1966. Admission to the Memphis Christian Youth Rally, on the other hand, is free, but they’ll attract fewer than eight thousand. And a good third of the crowd seems to be parents, judging from the folks we’ve seen passing by.

  Katherine also notices the exchange between the two teens. She taps Saul on the shoulder. “Change of plans. You’re my uncle. A preacher from Birmingham. We’re in Memphis visiting family. I wanted to see the Beatles, but you forced me to come here. And I hate you for it.” She gives him a sassy grin and takes off to join the group of girls up ahead.

  I suspect that their original cover had her at Saul’s beck and call for the entire evening. But if he was planning to argue, it’s pointless. Katherine is already gone. Maybe she has a bit more spine than I thought.

  Saul glances back at me and Rich and gives me a quick visual scan. “You really think they’re going to let you in like that?”

  “What? Khakis and a sports coat? That’s standard mid-1960s menswear.”

  I’m being purposefully obtuse. I know he’s not talking about my clothes. The bright blue lenses are gone today, and my hair is natural. Not quite what they’ll call an Afro a few years from now, but no one is going to mistake me for that Dennis the Menace actor.

  “Anyway, that’s kind of the point,” Richard says. “Ellis Auditorium has been more or less desegregated since 1960. So we’re testing them.”