Authors: Michael Redhill
“Not yet. Look at the date.” He pushed the piece of newsprint back toward the other boy.
Walter looked at the date and half closed his left eye. “Nice try,” he said, handing it back. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“Nearby.”
“Uh-huh. How old are you?”
“I’m eleven.”
“And how many months?”
“I’m almost twelve.”
“I’ll be twelve in five months.”
“I guess I’m older then.”
Walter folded his arms over his chest.
“You never said your name.”
“Oh. Dashiel. Woolf,” he added. “Like a dog.”
“A wolf is not a dog.”
“But they’re related.”
“I know that,” Walter said. “And I know you can’t have a newspaper that hasn’t been printed yet. So see ya.” He walked out the mouth of the alley.
“Wait!
Look!
”
Walter turned with a snarl. Dash held the paper out.
“You’re in the audience at a talk by
Harry Houdini.
Doesn’t that interest you?”
“Not in the least!”
“Then explain why you’re watching his lecture in this newspaper picture! Someone gave me this, and then I run into you … Don’t you think that’s something?”
“I think you’re barmy.”
“Well, I’m telling you—”
“See ya,” said Walter, and he turned on his heel.
“No! Hold on!” Dash ran to catch up with him. “Look,” he said nervously, “just listen for a second. I know it’s going to sound a little crazy—”
“You think?”
“I’m from the future,” he said. “I was in a magic trick that went wrong!” The other boy quickened his pace. “Just stop—listen to me! I think … I think that—”
“What!” Walter stopped suddenly and put a hand up at arm’s length. “What do you
think
?”
“I think that, uh, you’re supposed to go to Montreal. Like, tomorrow.”
Gibson nodded, a little wild-eyed. “Sure, I am. For tea and crumpets.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“I … I don’t know why yet.”
In a voice smouldering with anger, Walter said, “Get away from me!”
He moved off quickly, only looking over his shoulder when he’d put some distance between them. When he saw that Dash wasn’t following, he slowed down. But Dash trailed him at a distance, ducking into shadow if the other boy turned around. They crossed through the big park (that was the forest Dash had seen at the end of Victor Avenue) and along Frizzell Avenue. Walter turned and went into a house.
Dash waited a minute, then he walked directly up to the door and knocked. It opened, and the boy stood there on the other side of it, looking dumbstruck. A man and a woman sat in the kitchen at the end of the hallway, staring at them.
“Have you got anything to eat?” Dash said to Walter, quietly. “Because apart from a cherry purse and a couple of hot cross buns, I haven’t eaten in eighty-five years.”
Walter Gibson bared his teeth.
“What are you doing here!”
“I’m not crazy!”
The other boy looked out to the street, suspicious. “I said you were
barmy
, but it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t care what you’re peddling. Find someone else to tell your stories to.”
He was shutting the door when a deep, male voice said, “Walt, who’s there?”
“No one, sir.”
A man with a severe face appeared in the doorway. He leaned on a crutch that was tucked up under his arm. “Who are you?” he asked Dash.
“I’m a friend of Walter’s.”
“He’s not, honestly! I don’t know’m at all.”
“Well, then, you have the wrong house,” said Walter’s father, and he began to close the door.
“Wait!” said Dash. “Hey, Walt, remember you were telling me you had an extra nickel and we were going to get some suckers?”
Walter’s eyes widened so quickly they almost made a sound.
“Remember?” said Dash.
The man put one of his thin, pale hands on his son’s shoulder and opened the door fully. He said, “What nickel is he talking about?”
“Nothing, sir,” Walter muttered.
“Did you give Jeffers his tip?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And do you know this boy or not?”
“A little. I know him a little.”
The father gave his son an icy glare as he limped backwards into the foyer. Dash noticed that the bottom half of one of his pant legs was empty. It swayed a little as he moved.
“Your sister is asleep,” Mr. Gibson said. “I expect the two of you will conduct your business quickly and in silence. Where is your hat?” he asked Dash.
“I lost it.”
“And what kind of cufflinks are those?”
“Oh—these? Um, they’re hockey sticks.” He’d forgotten that he’d done his cuffs up with the little silver hockey sticks his grandmother had given him last year.
“Honestly. Children these days.” Mr. Gibson turned and disappeared through a door.
Walter leaned in toward Dash and said, “Get goin’! Now.”
His mother came into the hall. “Hello there, dear,” she said. “What is your name?”
“Dash.”
“Dash is going,” said Walter. “He’s gotta
dash.
Too bad. He would have loved to have more time for his visit.”
“No time for pie?” Mrs. Gibson said, turning down her lower lip.
“I have to get back to school!” protested Walter.
Walter’s mother put a hand lightly on Dash’s shoulder. “School doesn’t start for twenty more minutes. Now, who is your friend, dear?”
“He’s new to the neighbourhood,” Walter said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, welcome, then!” Mrs. Gibson said, bestowing a smile. It was so warm that Dash wanted to fold himself into her arms.
“Will you have a piece of quince pie?”
Quince? “Oh yes, thank you.”
“Whipped cream?”
He could barely reply.
“Please.”
A few minutes later, Walter’s mother ushered the boys out to the garden with two plates of pie. When he heard the door shut with a
snick
, Walter rounded on Dash and shoved his plate at him.
“What’s the big idea, follering me to my
house
?”
“I have to talk to you.”
Gibson shook his head. “Just eat your pie and scram.”
“Look at the picture again.”
“It’s not me.”
“Then look at this.” He took a two-dollar coin out of his pocket, dated 2010. He gave it to Walter, who held it in his palm and stared at it.
“Big deal. Somebody gave you a medal.”
“It’s not a medal. It’s a coin. Look at it! How could I fake something like that?” As Walter examined the coin, Dash tried to imagine seeing a toonie for the first time—the silver-coloured metal surrounding a smaller, yellow disk, like two coins in one. It was pretty impressive.
“That’s easy,” said Walter. “Get a coupla bits of scrap, some steel, some copper or brass, get someone to machine ‘em for you, someone else cuts a hole in the big piece, you hammer in the smaller one. There ya go, there’s your
coin.
”
“C’mon,” said Dash, “look at the date on it. And look, here’s another one.” He dug in his pocket for all the coins he’d had when he went onstage at the Canon Theatre. He’d bought the wine gums with a five-dollar bill his dad had given him, and he still had the change. There were a couple of dimes, a quarter, and some pennies. He recited the dates as he passed them over to Walter. “Dime, 1997; dime, 2006; two pennies, one from 1994, the other from 2009. Then there’s another dime, an older one—look at this one, from 1981.”
“I DON’T CARE!”
“Come on! Look at them! That’s where I got that piece of newspaper, Walter. I got it in the
future.
In 2011.”
Walter appeared uneasy. Dash knew how he felt. During the pause he took a big forkful of the pie and almost started singing. He didn’t know what quince was, but it was softly sweet, a taste between lemon and cream. He got the newspaper page out again.
“I think this really is
you
,” he said between bites.
Walter looked a long time at the image, and then his jaw dropped. “Oh no,” he said quietly.
“What?”
He handed the newspaper back, looking away. “You’re in it too. Your stupid cufflink.”
Dash ran his eyes over the picture again until he saw the telltale glint of the hockey stick poking out from the sleeve of his suit jacket—the one he was wearing this very moment. His face was hidden behind Walter’s shoulder, but that was him all right.
Walter took Dash’s plate away. “I don’t know how you did this or how you got here, but I want you to leave my house, and don’t come back. And don’t ever talk to me again.”
“You boys done?” came a voice from the doorway.
Dash grabbed Walter’s wrist before he could escape back into the house. “I live at 94 Victor Avenue. In an empty house. I have no money I can spend here and I have no idea how long I’m going to be stuck here!”
“Let go of me!”
“At least bring me some food! Okay? I know you believe me now!” The other boy pulled away. “Walt! Help me!”
Walter went to the door, where his mother was waiting.
“Come in, but keep it quiet,” Mrs. Gibson said.
Dash thanked her, and she offered him that smile again.
“Oh, there you are, sweetie,” she said.
He wasn’t sure who she was talking to until he saw a girl of about six shuffling sleepily into the kitchen. She was grinding a fist into one of her eyes, and her mouth was turned down into a
dramatic frown. Her expression said:
I’m sick!
She pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and sat in it heavily.
“This is our poor little Dee Dee,” Mrs. Gibson said. The girl’s hair was messy and her eyes were red. “She has a
terrible
cold.” She kissed the girl on the forehead and frowned.
Just watching her made Dash feel sleepy.
“I am rather unwell,” said Dee Dee. “My mother has given me a syrup that will make me feel better.”
“I’m glad,” said Dash. He could see Walter standing down the hall in the foyer, waiting to see him out. Or maybe
punch
him out. The kid was steaming mad. Dash leaned back into the kitchen. “Hey, Dee Dee? Would you like to watch a magic trick?”
“Yes, that would be very nice,” said the girl. “Seeing as I am sick and in need of a distraction.”
Dash looked back down the hall at Walter and tried to flash him a friendly little smile before he took a step
away
from the exit. He showed Dee Dee a quarter as Walter inched toward the kitchen.
“Now watch this coin,” Dash said, placing it in his left palm. He put the date face down.
Dee Dee stared at the quarter, her eyes a little glassy. “I am watching it carefully,” she said.
“Here it is, lying in the palm of my hand,” he said. He waved his right hand over the coin. “Do you still see it?”
“I do.”
He repeated the gesture over his upturned palm two more times. “Once … twice,” he intoned, and the third time his hand passed over the coin, it had vanished. “Gone,” he said.
Dee Dee made a small
O
with her mouth. “The most important thing about vanishing something,” Dash said, “is making it come back.” He leaned over, pulling the coin from behind her ear. “Tell your brother,” he whispered to her, “if he wants to learn this trick, I can teach it to him.”
The little girl was speechless.
Dash went up to Walter and put the quarter into his palm. Then he saw himself out.
There was nothing to do but go home and wait. And
worry.
Dash started across the park, like he would have done if he’d been coming from Alex’s house on Wroxeter instead of Walter’s on Frizzell. Though, he would never come home from Alex’s house on Wroxeter again because Alex now lived in Leiden. Which was in Holland.
There were people in the park as the sun was high now. This was the warmest it had been since Dash arrived. The snow that had fallen the night before had mostly disappeared, although there were woolly tufts of it here and there on the grass. Two children were chasing each other around a large stone. One of them was crying,
Hey, lolly lolly!
They weren’t so different, he supposed. Except for their get-ups, they were still kids.
“Surrender!” shouted someone from across the road. It was a little boy with a pop gun. He was shooting at Dash and feeble blue sparks flew up from the gun’s muzzle.
“You got me,” said Dash, feigning death with his hands over his heart.
“I am a’ arm of the law, mister! Don’t mix’er up with me!”
There was actual smoke coming from the gun. The kid blew it and walked off. Dash saw he had a cardboard star pinned to his shirt.
He crossed the park and continued toward his house. What was there to do in an empty house? He had to conserve energy. He couldn’t keep walking around. Still, facing that house with its echoing rooms in the daylight—for some reason that freaked him out more than hearing himself laugh in it at night. He reversed his steps and began walking again up to Danforth Avenue. Maybe he’d find a pear tree or something. There were a lot of fruit trees in his neighbourhood. But the road he was on didn’t seem to have any.
He moved at an easy pace through the quiet afternoon. The shops that had closed for lunch were just beginning to open again.
How civilized
, his mother would have commented. He looked at the theatre close to the end of Danforth that had been there forever. He couldn’t remember what it was called in his time, but here it was a cinema, called the Century. It looked much more impressive than he remembered it. The marquee, sticking out over the sidewalk, announced what was playing:
W
HEN
L
OVE
G
ROWS
C
OLD
and
So T
HIS
I
S
P
ARIS.
But it wasn’t a cinema every night of the week: a line at the bottom of both sides of the marquee said, T
UESDAY
N
IGHT
V
AUDEVILLE PROGRAM
: 25¢.
There was a card behind a glass window to the right of the ticket booth. It told who was starring in all the movies that week, and then, in a black box at the bottom, it listed the players in the vaudeville show.
TUESDAY NIGHTS AT THE CENTURY
VAUDEVILLE FROLIC–
10
ACTS
!
JUGGLERS AND ACROBATS
Knickerbocker Singers, direct
from Hoboken, N.J.
“THE FALL OF EVE”
a new one-act comedy
PATHE NEWS
MISS MERLE AND HER
FEATHERED FRIENDS
The Act Deluxe of Birdland
BOONE HELM AND LIBERTY SLEPPO
MASTER MARKSMEN
BLUMETHAL AND WOLFGANG
Performers of the Mysterious
Exclusive Photoplay
“
CHARMING
” MISS MARY MILES IN
HER WINNING WAY
8pm, 25¢ Admission all seats
Suddenly his hands were tingling. Blumenthal?
BLUMENTHAL!
Tonight.
But where was he going to get a quarter? One he could actually use in 1926?