The Best Time Travel Stories of the 20th Century (53 page)

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!”

“Harry—”

“And her stories, too! Full of ugly murders, ugly places, unhappy endings. What she needs is something to show her that writing could be about sweetness, too.”

Manny was staring at him hard. Harry felt a rush of affection. That Manny should have the answer! Skinny wonderful Manny!

Manny said slowly, “Jackie said to me, ‘I write about reality.’ That’s what she said, Harry.”

“So there’s no sweetness in reality? Put sweetness in her life, her writing will go sweet. She
needs
this, Manny. A really nice fellow!”

Two men in jogging suits ran past. One of their Reeboks came down on a shard of beer bottle. “Every fucking time!” he screamed, bending over to inspect his shoe.

“Fucking park!”

“Well, what do you expect?” the other drawled, looking at Manny and Harry.

“Although you’d think that if we could clean up Lake Erie....”

“Fucking derelicts!” the other snarled. They jogged away.

“Of course,” Harry said, “it might not be easy to find the sort of guy to convince Jackie.”

“Harry, I think you should maybe think—”

“Not here,” Harry said suddenly. “Not here.
There.
In 1937.”

“Harry....”

“Yeah,” Harry said, nodding several times. Excitement filled him like light, like electricity. What an idea! “It was different then.” 

Manny said nothing. When he stood up, the sleeve of his coat exposed the number tattooed on his wrist. He said quietly, “It was no paradise in 1937 either, Harry.”

Harry seized Manny’s hand. “I’m going to do it, Manny. Find someone for her there.

Bring him here.”

Manny sighed. “Tomorrow at the chess club, Harry? At one o’clock? It’s Tuesday.”

“I’ll tell you then how I’m coming with this.”

“Fine, Harry. Fine. All my wishes go with you. You know that.”

Harry stood up too, still holding Manny’s hand. A middle-aged man staggered to the bench and slumped onto it. The smell of whiskey rose from him in waves. He eyed Manny and Harry with scorn. “Fucking fags.”

“Good night, Harry.”

“Manny—if you’d only come... money goes so much farther there....”

“Tomorrow at one. At the chess club.”

Harry watched his friend walk away. Manny’s foot dragged a little; the knee must be bothering him again. Harry wished Manny would see a doctor. Maybe a doctor would know why Manny stayed so skinny.

Harry walked back to his hotel. In the lobby, old men slumped in upholstery thin from wear, burned from cigarettes, shiny in the seat from long sitting. Sitting and sitting, Harry thought—life measured by the seat of the pants. And now it was getting dark. No one would go out from here until the next daylight. Harry shook his head.

The elevator wasn’t working again. He climbed the stairs to the third floor. Halfway there, he stopped, felt in his pocket, counted five quarters, six dimes, two nickels, and eight pennies. He returned to the lobby. “Could I have two dollar bills for this change, please? Maybe old bills?”

The clerk looked at him suspiciously. “Your rent paid up?”

“Certainly,” Harry said. The woman grudgingly gave him the money.

“Thank you. You look very lovely today, Mrs. Raduski.” Mrs. Raduski snorted.

In his room, Harry looked for his hat. He finally found it under his bed—how had it gotten under his bed? He dusted it off and put it on. It had cost him $3.25. He opened the closet door, parted the clothes hanging from their metal pole—like Moses parting the sea, he always thought, a Moses come again—and stepped to the back of the closet, remembering with his body rather than his mind the sharp little twist to the right just past the far gray sleeve of his good wool suit.

He stepped out into the bare corner of a warehouse. Cobwebs brushed his hat; he had stepped a little too far right. Harry crossed the empty concrete space to where the lumber stacks started, and threaded his way through them. The lumber, too, was covered with cobwebs; not much building going on. On his way out the warehouse door, Harry passed the night watchman coming on duty.

“Quiet all day, Harry?”

“As a church, Rudy,” Harry said. Rudy laughed. He laughed a lot. He was also indisposed to question very much. The first time he had seen Harry coming out of the warehouse in a bemused daze, he must have assumed that Harry had been hired to work there. Peering at Rudy’s round, vacant face, Harry realized that he must hold this job because he was someone’s uncle, someone’s cousin, someone’s something. Harry had felt a small glow of approval; families should take care of their own. He had told Rudy that he had lost his key and asked him for another.

Outside it was late afternoon. Harry began walking. Eventually there were people walking past him, beside him, across the street from him. Everybody wore hats. The women wore bits of velvet or wool with dotted veils across their noses and long, graceful dresses in small prints. The men wore fedoras with suits as baggy as Harry’s.

When he reached the park there were children, girls in long black tights and hard shoes, boys in buttoned shirts. Everyone looked like it was Sunday morning.

Pushcarts and shops lined the sidewalks. Harry bought a pair of socks, thick gray wool, for 89 cents. When the man took his dollar, Harry held his breath: each first time made a little pip in his stomach. But no one ever looked at the dates of old bills. He bought two oranges for five cents each, and then, thinking of Manny, bought a third. At a candystore he bought
G-8 And His Battle Aces
for fifteen cents. At The Collector’s Cozy in the other time they would gladly give him thirty dollars for it. Finally, he bought a cherry Coke for a nickel and headed towards the park.

“Oh, excuse me,” said a young man who bumped into Harry on the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry!” Harry looked at him hard: but, no. Too young. Jackie was twenty-eight.

Some children ran past, making for the movie theater. Spencer Tracy in
Captains
Courageous.
Harry sat down on a green-painted wooden bench under a pair of magnificent Dutch elms. On the bench lay a news-magazine. Harry glanced at it to see when in September this was: the 28th. The cover pictured a young blond Nazi soldier standing at stiff salute. Harry thought again of Manny, frowned, and turned the magazine cover down.

For the next hour, people walked past. Harry studied them carefully. When it got too dark to see, he walked back to the warehouse, on the way buying an apple kuchen at a bakery with a curtain behind the counter looped back to reveal a man in his shirt sleeves eating a plate of stew at a table bathed in soft yellow lamplight. The kuchen cost thirty-two cents.

At the warehouse, Harry let himself in with his key, slipped past Rudy nodding over
Paris Nights,
and walked to his cobwebby corner. He emerged from his third-floor closet into his room. Beyond the window, sirens wailed and would not stop.

“So how’s it going?” Manny asked. He dripped kuchen crumbs on the chessboard; Harry brushed them away. Manny had him down a knight.

“It’s going to take time to find somebody that’s right,” Harry said. “I’d like to have someone by next Tuesday when I meet Jackie for dinner, but I don’t know. It’s not easy.

There are requirements. He has to be young enough to be attractive, but old enough to understand Jackie. He has to be sweet-natured enough to do her some good, but strong enough not to panic at jumping over fifty-two years. Somebody educated. An educated man—he might be more curious than upset by my closet. Don’t you think?”

“Better watch your queen,” Manny said, moving his rook. “So how are you going to find him?”

“It takes time,” Harry said. “I’m working on it.”

Manny shook his head. “You have to get somebody here, you have to convince him he
is
here, you have to keep him from turning right around and running back in time through your shirts.... I don’t know, Harry. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking. This thing is not simple. What if you did something wrong? Took somebody important out of 1937?”

“I won’t pick anybody important.”

“What if you made a mistake and brought your own grandfather? And something happened to him here?” 

“My grandfather was already dead in 1937.”

“What if you brought me? I’m already here.”

“You didn’t live here in 1937.”

“What if you brought
you
?”

“I didn’t live here either.”

“What if you....”

“Manny,” Harry said, “I’m not bringing somebody important. I’m not bringing somebody we know. I’m not bringing somebody for permanent. I’m just bringing a nice guy for Jackie to meet, go dancing, see a different kind of nature. A different view of what’s possible. An innocence. I’m sure there are fellows here that would do it, but I don’t know any, and I don’t know how to bring any to her. From there I know. Is this so complicated? Is this so unpredictable?”

“Yes,” Manny said. He had on his stubborn look again. How could somebody so skimpy look so stubborn? Harry sighed and moved his lone knight.

“I brought you some whole socks.”

“Thank you. That knight, it’s not going to help you much.”

“Lectures. That’s what there was there that there isn’t here. Everybody went to lectures. No TV, movies cost money, they went to free lectures.”

“I remember,” Manny said. “I was a young man myself. Harry, this thing is not simple.”

“Yes, it is,” Harry said stubbornly.

“1937 was not simple.”

“It will work, Manny.”

“Check,” Manny said.

That evening, Harry went back. This time it was the afternoon of September 16. On newsstands the New York
Times
announced that President Roosevelt and John L. Lewis had talked pleasantly at the White House. Cigarettes cost thirteen cents a pack. Women wore cotton stockings and clunky, high-heeled shoes. Schrafft’s best chocolates were sixty cents a pound. Small boys addressed Harry as “sir.”

He attended six lectures in two days. A Madame Trefania lectured on theosophy to a hall full of badly-dressed women with thin, pursed lips. A union organizer roused an audience to a pitch that made Harry leave after the first thirty minutes. A skinny, nervous missionary showed slides of religious outposts in China. An archeologist back from a Mexican dig gave a dry, impatient talk about temples to an audience of three people. A New Deal Democrat spoke passionately about aiding the poor, but afterwards addressed all the women present as “Sister.” Finally, just when Harry was starting to feel discouraged, he found it.

A museum offered a series of lectures on “Science of Today—and Tomorrow.” Harry heard a slim young man with a reddish beard speak with idealistic passion about travel to the moon, the planets, the stars. It seemed to Harry that compared to stars, 1989 might seem reasonably close. The young man had warm hazel eyes and a sense of humor.

When he spoke about life in a space ship, he mentioned in passing that women would be freed from much domestic drudgery they now endured. Throughout the lecture, he smoked, lighting cigarettes with a masculine squinting of eye and cupping of hands. He said that imagination was the human quality that would most help people adjust to the future. His shoes were polished.

But most of all, Harry thought, he had a
glow.
A fine golden Boy Scout glow that made Harry think of old covers for the
Saturday Evening Post.
Which here cost five cents.

After the lecture, Harry stayed in his chair in the front row, outwaiting even the girl with bright red lipstick who lingered around the lecturer, this Robert Gernshon. From time to time, Gernshon glanced over at Harry with quizzical interest. Finally the girl, red lips pouting, sashayed out of the hall.

“Hello,” Harry said. “I’m Harry Kramer. I enjoyed your talk. I have something to show you that you would be very interested in.”

The hazel eyes turned wary. “Oh, no, no,” Harry said. “Something
scientific.
Here, look at this.” He handed Gernshon a filtered Vantage Light.

“How long it is,” Gernshon said. “What’s this made of?”

“The filter? It’s made of... a new filter material. Tastes milder and cuts down on the nicotine. Much better for you. Look at this.” He gave Gernshon a styrofoam cup from MacDonald’s. “It’s made of a new material, too. Very cheap. Disposable.” 

Gernshon fingered the cup. “Who are you?” he said quietly.

“A scientist. I’m interested in the science of tomorrow, too. Like you. I’d like to invite you to see my laboratory, which is in my home.”

“In your home?”

“Yes. In a small way. Just dabbling, you know.” Harry could feel himself getting rattled; the young hazel eyes stared at him so steadily.
Jackie,
he thought. Dead earths.

Maggots and carrion. Contempt for mothers. What would Gernshon say? When would Gernshon say
anything
?

“Thank you,” Gernshon finally said. “When would be convenient?”

“Now?” Harry said. He tried to remember what time of day it was now. All he could picture was lecture halls.

Gernshon came. It was nine-thirty in the evening of Friday, September 17. Harry walked Gernshon through the streets, trying to talk animatedly, trying to distract. He said that he himself was very interested in travel to the stars. He said it had always been his dream to stand on another planet and take in great gulps of completely unpolluted air. He said his great heroes were those biologists who made that twisty model of DNA.

He said science had been his life. Gernshon walked more and more silently.

“Of course,” Harry said hastily, “like most scientists, I’m mostly familiar with my own field. You know how it is.”

“What is your field, Dr. Kramer?” Gernshon asked quietly.

“Electricity,” Harry said, and hit him on the back of the head with a solid brass candlestick from the pocket of his coat. The candlestick had cost him three dollars at a pawn shop.

They had walked past the stores and pushcarts to a point where the locked business offices and warehouses began. There were no passers-by, no muggers, no street dealers, no Guardian Angels, no punk gangs. Only him, hitting an unarmed man with a candlestick. He was no better than the punks. But what else could he do? What else could he
do
? Nothing but hit him softly, so softly that Gernshon was struggling again almost before Harry got his hands and feet tied, well before he got on the blindfold and gag. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept saying to Gernshon. Gernshon did not look as if the apology made any difference. Harry dragged him into the warehouse.