17
As Corey awakened, there was only one thought in his mind:
She’s dead.
He spat out dust. His arm ached, his pants were ripped, and a rat was nibbling on his shoelace.
“Yecchh!” he cried, pulling in his leg.
The critter gave him a steady, disappointed look and then scampered into a hole in the dirt. Corey coughed and blinked the dust from his eyes. He tried to sit up but he was knocked back by the pain all over his body. He blinked and looked upward. Two vertical dirt walls arose on either side of him, maybe twenty feet high, framing a clear sky. The soil below him was wet and smelled foul.
He had no idea what had just happened or where he was. Had he fallen into some ditch that was safe from the World Trade Center debris? Had someone pulled him to a construction site across the highway?
No matter what, he was alone. Which meant he’d been too late. She’d run past him. Up to her office. She’d been in the elevator when it happened. Corey felt like a murderer. What good was being a Throwback if you couldn’t take advantage of the powers? It was an epic fail. A fatal fail. He was alive—somewhere—and she wasn’t.
He heard a low moan, slowly rising to a shout. It took a few seconds to realize that it had come from his own mouth.
“Sounds like a bloody animal,” came a voice from above him. “Madam, is this the young ruffian who attacked you?”
Corey scrambled to his feet. From above the wall, an old man stared down at him through a monocle. He had thick white sideburns and wore a brimmed hat. “What the— Who are you?” Corey blurted out.
“The fascination is mutual, I assure you,” the man said.
He was joined by a woman with thick makeup and dyed red hair that peeked out of the edges of a kerchief. “The kid didn’t attack, he jes’ appeeahed outta nowheah,” she replied, in the thickest New York accent Corey had ever heard. “Fell in, boom. He wuzn’t fresh or nothin’. Say, are yuz okay, young fella?”
Corey didn’t know how to reply. He blinked and looked around in bewilderment. Not far from him were two men lying against the dirt wall in the shadows, surrounded by empty bottles. They stared at him with bleary, half-lidded eyes.
“I think the lady likes ya, Stretch,” one of them called out to Corey in a thick and slurry voice.
“Send ’er to me if she wants a real man,” growled the other guy.
“Send ’er to you if she wants to lose whatever money she has.”
“Ahhhh, yer mudder’s mustache.”
“Ahhhh, yer fadder’s belly button.”
Neither of the men moved a muscle while speaking. Now it looked like they were falling asleep, as if that little conversation was enough work for the day. There were other men behind them. No one seemed to be doing much of anything. Some were standing, some lying down.
The gash of daylight overhead showed a calm, clear sky. No debris, no fires, no dust clouds, no eerie silence. None of the things people described about the 9/11 aftermath. The wall behind Corey was perfectly vertical, supported in places by thick wood planks. It was separated from the parallel wall by about sixty yards of flat, hard-packed dirt floor. Which meant Corey was in a ditch—a roofless tunnel that stretched as far as he could see, lined here and there with rickety ladders.
But . . . where was this?
Corey was seized with panic. The sharp pop of a nearby explosion made him flinch. One of the ditch people let out a hoot, shouting, “Here comes Tin Lizzie! Give her a proper greetin’!”
A group of men lumbered over to a bridge that spanned the ditch overhead, a thick set of wood planks supported by a rickety metal scaffold. Across it, a clunky old black car puttered loudly, making the planks bow dangerously downward. The men jeered and made fart noises, waving their hats and laughing. From inside the car, a proper-looking woman with a powdered-white face stared wide-eyed for a moment and then rolled up her window.
“I say, boy!” called the old man directly above Corey. “Can I get someone to give you a hand and deliver you from these thieving rapscallions?”
“What?” Corey said. “Sure.”
As the man and woman disappeared, Corey slumped against the wall. What had just happened? He was not in 2001, that was clear. But where was he—and when?
Corey spotted his grandmother’s schedule and his ancestor’s passport at his feet, and he stooped to pick them up. The passport was open to the photo. Corey smiled down at the stern old face. The man whose name day brought Maria Harvoulakis Fletcher to the Greek church and almost saved her life. “Worst happy name day ever, huh?” he said grimly, unfolding the cover to close it.
A moment later, the old man and the red-haired woman reappeared above him. With them was a guy in a cap, overalls, and a striped shirt who looked like a younger version of Popeye. He tipped his cap at Corey, lay flat on his torso, and reached a hand down. “Alley-oop, pal! Grab one of them ladders that ain’t broken.”
Corey did as he was told, and a moment later he was scrabbling over the edge of the ditch. “Atta boy,” the guy said. “Name’s Rusty.”
“I’m Mildred but everybody calls me Millie,” the woman said. She curtsied awkwardly, her dress flouncing left and right.
“I’m Filcher,” the old man said.
Corey looked around in bafflement. He was surrounded by four-story brick buildings, but it looked like someone had bulldozed a wide path right through them to make the ditch. Piles of construction rubble were everywhere, and some of the buildings were even missing corners, like they’d been sliced. Apartment interiors showed through the broken walls, their flowered wallpaper making them look like giant abandoned dollhouses. “I’m Corey.”
“What the heck were you doin’ down there with them rummies, kid?” Rusty said.
“He fell in, Einstein, whaddya think?” said Millie. “A lotta people fall in.”
The old man shook his head. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a white card, and handed it to Corey. “Outrageous! This foolish subway construction is the height of negligence. They evict good citizens from their homes, destroy the buildings, take their merry time building their track, and then—surprise! The war effort requires steel, so construction is halted. And what’s left? A public hole! A breeding ground for vermin and immorality! A death trap after dark! And for what—to lay down tracks and extend the subway into Brooklyn? Who on earth wants to go to Brooklyn in a tube under the river? Who will ever need that?”
“Me, for one,” Rusty said. “I live there.”
As the two men bickered, Corey peered behind the big man, at a sign that had been pasted to a brick wall:
|
!!ATTENTION!! NEIGHBORS! FRIENDS!!! WHEREAS, the corrupt City Government has decided without Consult to extend the Seventh Avenue Subway below 14th Street and into the City of Brooklyn, and WHEREAS, the need for Steel to provide Ammunition for our heroic Troops in the Great War has halted Construction, and WHEREAS, the dastardly Gash that mars our Village has been allowed to remain open like a Festering Wound due to the Bribes and Extortion paid to the Fat Cats of Tammany, and WHEREAS, the good People of Greenwich Village have lost their Lives due to Falls & the attendant Cracked Skulls, THEN LET IT BE RESOLVED that we the Suffering shall RISE UP to rectify this Injustice!!! Join us!!! UNION SQUARE 6:00 P.M. JUNE 15, 1917 |
“Wait,” Corey said. “Are you serious? It’s 1917? How the heck did that happen?”
His head was throbbing. This made no sense.
“Whot, whot?” the old man said. “Disorientation, memory loss—these indicate brain injury! Once again, industrial progress claims an innocent victim! But you, young fellow, are in luck, for I am an attorney! I represent the concerns of the good citizens of Greater Greenwich Village, who have suffered from this godforsaken construction project. And I am, humbly, at your service.”
Corey read the man’s card:
HORACE P. FILCHER, ESQUIRE
ATTORNEY AT LARGE
345 ½ HUDSON STREET
NEW YORK 4, NEW YORK
THOUGHTFUL • THOROUGH • THRIFTY
“Thanks,” Corey said.
“Young man, I instruct you to clean yourself up,” Filcher replied. “I will expect to see you in my offices as soon as you can. It will be to our mutual financial benefit, I assure you. And whom shall I expect? The full name is Corey . . .”
“Fletcher,” Corey replied.
The man extended a bony hand. “Fletcher, I’m Filcher. Haa! That’s a good omen. Visit anytime from nine to five. Except from twelve thirty to two thirty, when I have my postprandial detour into the arms of Morpheus.”
“Sounds illegal,” Rusty said.
“It means he’s napping,” Millie piped up. “Such a fancy pants.”
Tipping his hat, the old man walked away. “Good day, all.”
“Aaayy, just a second!” Rusty followed right after him, his face growing red. “Where’s the quarter you said you’d pay me for helpin’ out?”
“I must, erm, collect some debts first. . . .”
As Corey watched them go, Millie put her arm around him. “You gonna be okay, big guy? You got a place to go?”
Corey nodded. “I’m fine,” he lied.
“Well, I’ll be at the market on Christopher if ya need me.”
Blowing a kiss to Corey, she walked uptown. Corey was relieved to be alone. He glanced up and down the street. It wasn’t much of one, really, just the big ditch surrounded by debris. On either side were the remnants of destroyed buildings. Side streets, lined with gas lamps, retreated from sight. Where those side streets intersected the hole, rickety bridges had been built. People were trying to walk carefully across, ignoring the catcalls and noises from the gang below. The women were in long dresses, the men in loose-fitting shabby pants and shirts. Nearly everyone wore hats of some kind, and all the clothes seemed to be some shade of brown, gray, or black. Makeshift street signs had been put up at each block. Corey was at Morton Street and could see that the next block was Barrow—streets that still existed in the twenty-first century. They were nowhere near the World Trade Center site. Just as Filcher had said, it was the West Village.
The crack of a whip made him spin around. A horse was trotting toward him, pulling a wagon piled with garbage. “Outta my way, boy!” the driver shouted, his mouth missing so many teeth that it looked like a piano keyboard.
Corey had to get somewhere quieter, less dangerous, less bombed-out. He ran up the avenue, over piles of rubble, and turned up Barrow Street. It was paved with cobblestones and lined with neat brick and stone buildings. But garbage was strewn in the gutter, and the air reeked of horse poop. He stopped in mid-block, at an empty lot. An older couple was sitting on the stoop of the brownstone next door, and they stopped their conversation to give him a curious look.
His breaths were shallow, panicked. The shock was wearing off, and questions flooded into his brain. Why was he here? Why wasn’t he back in the present? You needed metal. Steel, nickel, copper, gold, silver. He didn’t have any 1917 coins or subway tokens or belt buckles. Just coins from the present and . . .
A passport.
Could that be it?
Believe it or not, often a photograph alone will do, because of the silver content, Papou had said.
Quickly Corey reached into his pocket for the passport of his great-great-grandfather-of-the-unpronounceable name, Evanthis Harvoulakis. Once again he opened it.
The date under the photo was June 9, 1917. Corey had been holding on to it when the first plane hit the World Trade Center. He looked closely at the face. It was clearer, less yellow than it had been in 2001. Brand-new and warm to the touch.
Corey was alive. Because of Evanthis.
He hadn’t saved his grandmother. But her grandfather had saved him.
“Thanks, E.,” Corey whispered. Talking to the image of his ancestor made him feel weirdly sane. “Hey, I know you’re around here, somewhere, at the same time as me. That’s cool. In case I don’t get the chance to meet you, which I probably won’t, I just want to say I’m sorry. I let you down. I didn’t save your granddaughter. I mean, I know that doesn’t make sense. In 1917 you don’t have a granddaughter yet. And you probably died before 2001, so you have no idea what I’m talking about—I mean, you wouldn’t have an idea if you could hear me. Which you can’t. Because you’re a photograph . . .”
Now the old couple were staring at him, slack-jawed. Corey smiled tightly. “Gotta go! Have a nice day!”
He ducked into the empty lot and pressed himself to the side wall of the brownstone, hidden from sight. He had to get back home and talk to Papou. He wanted to try 2001 again. With better planning.
Hopping to 1917 was an accident, but getting home shouldn’t be too hard. He was a veteran time-hopper now, with four hops under his belt—on his block, in Central Park, at the World Trade site, here. Papou said it got easier and easier to do. Corey was glad he’d brought coins and his cell phone, all the metal he’d ever need.
He reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around a Snickers wrapper and a pack of tissues.
He checked the other pocket. Empty.
What?
He tried again. He scoured the sidewalk in case they’d spilled out. He’d been dropping a lot of stuff lately. But he saw no coins. No money at all. No phone. Not even the 2001 subway token.
His stomach seized up. He ran back out to Barrow Street. He followed his path to the ditch. As he got to the edge, he looked over. The two drunken men were awake now, trying to build a fire using newspapers. One of them glanced up. “Uh-oh . . .”
“We didn’t do nothin’,” the other protested. “It was Hans.”
“And Benny-boy,” the first guy said. “They both got sticky fingers. Said you was carryin’ a lot of scratch. And other interesting stuff.”
“They—they pickpocketed me?” Corey cried out. “When I was unconscious?”
The first guy shook his head in sympathy. “A sleeping kid. Imagine that! No morals. We’d never do that. We got mannerisms.”
“Do you know where they went?” Corey asked. “The ones who took my money?”
The two men shared a look. Then they piped up at the same time, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world:
“To spend it!”