From Time to Time (37 page)

CHAPTER 25

AND SO I LOST HIM, RUBE. Well, what did you think! What did you expect? I could have done this, should have done that, you bet. But I'm not supersleuth. Did the best I could, which wasn't very good, I know, I know. These defensive thoughts moving uselessly through my mind as 1 stood in my tenth-floor room looking down onto the darkness of Central Park. I was very tired, shucking off my coat, wondering what I ought to feel about my failure. Well, I said to myself, whatever Rube had argued me into, it had never seemed real or possible to me that anything I could do could really and truly prevent an enormous war involving nearly all the world. And I felt no sureness at all that Dr. D wasn't absolutely right:

Don't ever, ever alter the past . . . or you'll alter the future in a way or ways you cannot know.

But I did feel stupid, looking down onto the paving and the shining tracks of motionless Fifty-ninth Street. Then, as sometimes happens, another thought came winging along out of nowhere and inserted itself. And I swung around, walked out of my room in my shirtsleeves, and actually trotted down the staircase to the lobby, where the night clerk glanced up at me walking fast across the lobby. The newsstand had closed, but the papers were left out; you dropped your money into an empty cigar box on the counter. There were two copies of the Evening Mail still left.

Back in my room with one of them spread open on the bed, I turned pages, found the Jotta Girl's Wanamaker ad, and-as well as I could approximate what she had done-carefully tore out a section of the ad, for a woman's shoe. Glanced at it, then turned it to look at the other side. Out into the hall fast then, and tapped on her door.

She opened it cautiously, saw me, closed the door to remove the chain, then let me in, looking at me as I walked in past her, waiting for me to explain. She'd removed her bedspread, the bed still unopened, so I sat down on the edge of the bed, nodding at the chair near it, expecting her to take it. Instead, she sat down beside me, a little too close, so I lay back, on my side, head propped on elbow. She was having fun tonight, and did the same, and we lay there, faces about three inches apart, while she blinked at me slowly, smiling. It flustered me, as she knew it would, and for something to say, I murmured, "The Jotta Girl.

"What?

"It's what I've called you. In my mind. The Jotta Girl. From the song. I began quietly singing the foolish nonwords that had once so appealed to my five-year-old mind. "Jotta . . . jotta! Jotta, jotta, jink-jink-jing! She smiled, nodding, and when I continued, "Yes, jotta, she joined in, and we both sang, "Everywhere you go you hear em sing. Grinning at this two-in-the-morning foolishness, we sang, "Jotta! Oh, jotta! Jotta, jotta, jink-jink-jing! and ran out of words. Still smiling, I said, "How come you know that?

"I don't know: always have. From an old song, isn't it?

I nodded, quite slowly. "Yes. A song from the 1920s. I waited for her reaction, her confusion at knowing a song that wouldn't be written for years to come. But she didn't get it, didn't realize, just lay watching me, waiting.

So I said, "Did you get your shoes?

"What shoes?

From my shirt pocket I took the little rectangle of newsprint I'd torn from the Evening Mail, unfolded it, and held it up to show her the ad she'd torn from my first copy of the paper-for a woman's shoe. "This is the shoe you said you were interested in. Then I turned my little clipping to show her the other side. "Or was it really this you wanted torn out of my paper so I wouldn't see it? Printed on the side now facing her was a column of type headed: Departures. Below that, in small type: Sailing tonight on the Mauretania for Le Havre and Southampton: Colonel and Mrs. William T. Allen, Kenneth Braden and Susan Ferguson and daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Ausible, Marguerite Theodosia, Tom Buchanan, Ruth Buchanan, Miss Edna Butler, Major Archibald Butt, aide to the President . . . I said, "You didn't have to tear this out of my paper; I'd never have noticed it.

She shrugged. "I had to be sure. She didn't move; just kept kin g there, head propped on an elbow, waiting, so I said it.

"Dr. D sent you, didn't he?

She nodded. "We were afraid you'd remember me: because I was at the Project when you were. But he didn't have anyone else to send. I remember you at the Project!

"Yeah, well, sorry. Your hair is different or something.

"Sure, but still.

"Well, I'm teddibly, teddibly sorry. I do apologize. He sent you here to sabotage me, didn't he?

"I suppose you could say so. Simon, Dr. D knew who Z was the moment you first mentioned him! On the phone that night.

I nodded.

"Everyone knows who Archibald Butt was! Everyone in the world but you and Rube.

I nodded again.

"So yes, sure. I was here to keep you apart if I could. Till he sailed. I think Archie was suspicious of you anyway; you came on pretty strong and fast.

"Yeah, well, I didn't have a lot of time.

She moved her face slightly closer. "So I'm guilty. What are you going to do about it?

"Oh, I'm not mad. Or even sorry about it. I even think Dr. D may be right.

"Oh? Then how come-really, Simon, how come you were willing to try such a stupendous thing?

"As preventing World War One? Oh, just as a favor to a friend. We lay looking at each other, lying very close on a bed behind a closed door at two in the morning. Separated by the length of a lifetime from everyone who might care. We lay there looking at each other, and didn't move. Looked some more, and didn't move. Then smiled a little, the moment, if there'd ever been one, gone. "You're going home, she said. "I can tell. Back to dear old Julia. And I nodded, and we sat up.

"As soon and as fast as I can. I told Rube I'd report back, and I'll do it. Then it's home forever. You?

"I guess so. Sure.

"Wisconsin, isn't it?

Fraid so.

"How do you go?

"There's a place beside the East River. Sit there at night when you can't really see the other shore . . ." I was nodding, and she said, "You?

"Brooklyn Bridge, if I were going home. But tomorrow-Central Park.

"So strange. This thing we can do. To be able to do it. I've never really gotten used to it. She leaned close, and I thought she was going to kiss me, just lightly kiss me goodbye, but she only touched my arm for an instant, and I nodded, and we smiled, and I left.

An hour or maybe a little less before sunset next day, I checked out of the hotel, spare clothes left behind for whoever found them, and walked into the Park. From Fifty-ninth Street behind me, as the Plaza's doors opened and closed, I heard the music of the the dansant, and the occasional merry-melancholy fish-horn honk of a cab. It wasn't l'heure bleu, not today; there was a sharpness, a hint of rain in the air. But my bench when I found it was sheltered, and I sat down, and began the relaxation of mind and body, began the strange, actually indescribable mental search and simultaneous renunciation the Project had taught me.

And when presently-dark now, Fifth Avenue streetlamps on- I came around the last turn of the path, the Plaza had a spotlighted fountain twinkling before it, and cars pulling up to and leaving from, and people walking in through and out of, the Fifth Avenue entrance. And all around, and behind it-a great backdrop for it --the hard-glittering towers of Manhattan in the time I'd been born into.

CHAPTER 26

AT RUBE'S APARTMENT I had the easy chair, sitting by the windows in a parallelogram of late-afternoon sun, coffee mug in hand. But Rube-well, he didn't pace, wasn't nervous. He just walked, in his army pants, leather slippers, and white shirt. Wandered around his little living room listening, smiling, nodding, interested. I'd actually found Z but Rube didn't seem to care about that. What had I done in New York? What had I seen? What was it like?

He laughed genuinely when I quoted from The Greyhound, then wanted to know what the usherettes wore. And what the audience wore, and what they said in the lobby during intermission. And Mrs. Israel, and Professor Duryea, the dance teacher-and Jolson, my God! Tell me about them. And what the streets looked like. And Broadway.

He couldn't get enough, walking the room listening, smiling, nodding. Didn't give a damn about Z, far as I could tell. Finally I asked him about it, and he said, "Oh, we've been working too, Si, since you left. And now we know all about Major Archibald Butt. Your Jotta Girl was dead right. Jotta Girl,' he repeated mockingly. "How'd you come up with that? I shrugged, a little annoyed, and he said, "I remember her all right. From the Project. Hot little number.

" 'Hot little number.' Rube, if you ever develop the ability, head for the 1920s; you'll be right at home. "

"I only wish I could. Anyway, your Jotta Girl was right: Everybody in the world but us knew who Major Archibald Butt was. The checkout girl at Safewav knows. Your paper-delivery boy knows. And Dr. D sure did, once you'd blabbed to him. But now I know too. I've read all about him. Your pal Major Archibald Butt sailed for Europe. As we learned too late to brief you. We also know that he got his papers; the letters of intent or whatever. And that he sailed for home. We know the date now, and we even know the ship. But he never got home. Rube stood at my chair grinning down at me like a little kid.

"Well, if you should ever happen to feel like it, you might let me know too.

"He sailed . . ." Rube began to laugh, shoulders jiggling. "Huh, huh, huh, huh, oh my God. He sailed-ah, hah, hah, hah, hah! Si, he sailed for home on the goddamn Titanic!

After a moment I said, "Maybe you won't mind if I don't laugh. I knew him, God damn it!

"You disappoint me. Always have. Because you don't really have any imagination. This absolutely astounding ability is wasted on you, wasted. All it has ever really meant to you is going back to 1880-whatever, and Julia. Willy. And your goddamn dog. Add fireplace and slippers, and that's enough for you.

"Well . . . yeah.

"What I could do with your ability!

I pretended to cross myself at the thought.

"Simon, old fellow, even though you know that it isn't so, I believe you still actually think of the past as immutable. The Titanic sank. Major Butt drowned. World War One happened. Nothing to be done about it. You've never really and truly got hold of the idea that if you can go back before these things hap-

"Rube, it's you who's never understood. I've had time-and reason-to think, and the notion that Dr. D is right keeps sneaking into my mind. Whatever has happened is our past. What reason to go back and interfere with it? We're formed by our past; we'd change our own fate-blindly.

"Dr. D and his timid convert. Then, briskly, as though the nonsense were over now, he said, "Si, I want you to go back. And keep the Titanic from sinking. I smiled but he ignored it. "We have a 1911 passport made up for you , a real one, a good one, only a name change. It's just a big printed sheet, no photos then, thank God. You've got to go back, Si, because-we ye researched this- the sinking of the Titanic seems to have been an event that changed the course of the world it belonged to. Even more than the loss of the people who went down with her was an attitude lost with it. A way people thought about the world and the century. After the Titanic things were never the same. It was a kind of Big Bang that changed everything. And the world veered off in another and wrong direction, the century that could have been, derailed. But . . . could you get yourself back to May 1911?

I sat grinning, openly laughing at him. "Sure, but I won't. I just goddamn well won't. Why? What lunacy do you have in mind?

He told me, and I just grinned some more. "Home, Rube. I'm going home ."

.

He stood blinking at me, his face regretful, and said, "Si, I hope you will forgive me for what I have to do, and turned to walk to a little desk he had across the room. There he pushed aside a flat glass paperweight and picked up what I could see was a folded sheet of computer printout, holes down the sides. He brought it over, handed it to me, and I took and unfolded it, a long double sheet.

I couldn't tell what it was, no heading, just a long list, several dozen lines down the page in slightly faded computer print. Every line began with my name: Morley, Morley, Morley, clear down the left side. Following the first Morley, a comma, then Aaron D., a string of numerals, and HD, July 1, 1919. Then Morley, Adam A., a string of numerals, and HD, Dec. 17, 1918. Six or eight more Morleys followed by HD, meaning Honorable Discharge, it occurred to me. Then Morley, Calvin C., his serial number, and MIA, June 11, 1918, and I knew what this sheet was, and my hand began to tremble minutely, the paper vibrating, and my eyes wouldn't quite work right, and didn't want to, but I couldn't possibly help it, and looked down at the last name on the list just above the torn-off edge, and it was there: Morley, William S-S for Simon-his army serial number, and KIA, Dec. 2, 1917. Just in time for Christmas! my mind screamed. And I looked up at Rube, waiting, his face a little desperate. Before I could speak he said, pleading, "You had to know about Willy, Si! And you want to know, don't you? Don't you? Because I didn't fake that; don't ever think that. It's real. It's true.

I knew it was, and that in a single instant everything had changed and that I was going-had to try!-into the New York of May 1911, to attempt the craziness that could only occur in the mind of Ruben Prien.

"No, I don't blame you,' I said. "It's not your fault. Not your fault at all. You son of a bitch.

CHAPTER 27

No TROUBLE IN MAY 1911 booking a first-class passage on the Mauretania at the Cunard Line office on Lower Broadway. Next month maybe, but plenty of space now. Just time after that to buy clothes, right there on Lower Broadway: shirts, linen, shoes, pants, Norfolk jacket, cap, for walking on deck. Even dinner clothes. Along with two leather bags. Then a cab to Pier 52.

Unpacking in my cabin as we moved down the Hudson-the ship rock-steady, our motion smooth as a billiard ball rolling on felt-I'd glimpsed the city, so close, sliding swiftly past my cabin window. And by the time I reached the promenade deck in my spiffy new walking duds, we'd passed the tip of Manhattan, passed the Ambrose Lightship, and the great open sea lay ahead.