CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A Steam Train in Manhattan

“I hope the power’s on,” said Jaya, taking the tiny shrink ray out of her bag. It looked ridiculous with its gigantic, normal-size plug. “Where’s the wall outlet?”

We couldn’t find one. I guess they hadn’t been invented yet. Good thing I’d brought the batteries! Twenty minutes and endless fiddling later, we were back to life size, with the shrink ray and the demo time machine tucked away in the traveling bag.

I wanted to stow the time machine in the apartment while we went downtown to Tesla’s lab. I thought it would be safer than dragging it around town through who-knows-what terrible neighborhoods full of thugs and pickpockets. They had gangs called things like the Dead Rabbits and the Roach Guards, who would pour boiling water on people’s heads before shooting them.

“That was back in the 1850s,” said Jaya. “Schist! Don’t you know anything?”

I laughed. “Okay, so maybe the Dead Rabbits are gone. But I’m sure there are new gangs.”

“What’s stopping the thieves from coming in here and taking the machines while we’re out? Or the guy we just saw?”

She had a point. I shouldered the bag.

Having workmen around meant the doors would be open, so we could get back in when we needed to. We went out the back way, past what would be the janitor’s door when the building was finished. Nobody saw us.

I looked back at my building. It seemed much more impressive in the 1890s. For one thing, it was the tallest one on the block. They hadn’t yet built the skyscrapers that New York was going to be known for. My building was seven stories tall, with a fancy entrance and lions carved over the windows. It towered over the low brown houses.

“We can take the El downtown,” I said. “It’s over on Columbus Avenue.”

We buttoned up our coats, tied our scarves, and walked down my street. It was weird how similar everything was, and how totally different.

The first different thing was the smell. You know how Central Park South reeks from the carriage horses? It was like that everywhere. Some of the sidewalks were paved with slate, and some of the streets had cobblestones. But there were also unpaved streets and streets so covered with mud and muck and horse droppings that I couldn’t really tell whether they were paved or not.

The next thing I noticed was the quality of the noise. New York is a loud city, with horns honking, sirens screeping, jackhammers hacking up streets, and people shouting into their cell phones.

Back in 1895 it was just as noisy, but the sounds were different. There was a lot more clattering—all those horses’ hooves and carriage wheels bumping over the cobbles. In the side streets, servants banged metal trash cans and ladies practiced pianos in their parlors. On the avenues, knife grinders and nut roasters and hot corn sellers spun their wheels and shouted for customers. Chickens crowed in empty lots—the neighborhood had been farmland just a few years ago. And the horse-drawn fire trucks announced themselves with deafening bells.

Traffic lights hadn’t been invented yet, which made crossing the avenues exciting. With cars you only have one person to worry about: the driver. But with carriages, the horse also gets to have an opinion about whether you’ll survive the crossing. And horses are a lot bigger than we are.

“Don’t be so scared,” said Jaya as we crossed Amsterdam Avenue. “It’s just a horse. It’s not going to eat you.”

“Who’s scared? It’s just . . . big,” I said.

As I spoke, the horse in question let loose a loud, yellow stream of pee. It foamed as it hit the cobbles. Jaya jumped back, pulling her skirt away. “All right, all right. I admit cars have some advantages,” she said.

We heard the elevated railroad before we saw it. Smelled it, too. The air got even smokier and a tooth-shaking clatter came from overhead. Three stories up, on top of a looming iron track, a train roared and lurched past.

At the front was an engine like something out of an old children’s picture book. Thick coal smoke poured out of its smokestack. I coughed.

“Wow, that thing is cute!” exclaimed Jaya. “It’s like a whole old-fashioned steam train! On stilts! Did you see its little engine? Run, we’re missing it!”

I caught her arm. “That’s not ours. It’s going the wrong way,” I said. The train had been heading north, and we needed to go south.

We walked in the shadow of the track until we reached the staircase that led to the next station. The railings were decorated with curled ironwork.

“Did you bring the 1895 money?” I asked. “The fare should be a nickel.”

“Here you go,” said Jaya, handing me one. It had a lady’s head on one side and a V on the other.

We climbed the stairs to the station. A guard was standing next to a tall wooden boxy thing. We tried to give him our nickels.

“You need a ticket, sister,” he grunted.

“Oh, okay. Where do we get them?” said Jaya.

He jerked his thumb at another guard at a little window.

That guard was even surlier. He grabbed our nickels and pushed our tickets at us without a word.

The first guard took them, stuck them in the boxy thing, and pulled a lever. The machine gave a snap. He handed us back our tickets, now with holes in them.

The station was stuffy, with grimed-up windows and a little potbellied stove slamming out heat. Overhead, fancy sockets held dim, bare electric bulbs. The place smelled of damp woolen coats and the people wearing them. “Let’s wait outside,” suggested Jaya.

We pushed through the double doors to the platform. The wind was sharp, but we didn’t have long to wait. Soon a roar shook the station and one of Jaya’s cute little engines came tearing into view, pulling a tail of cars. The brakes screamed, the doors opened, and we stepped on.

• • •

The train was crowded. People glanced at us, but nobody stared. Either Jaya had found us convincing 1895 clothes or New Yorkers back then considered it part of basic politeness to mind their own business, just like they do today.

The train rattled past third-floor windows. We saw a man brushing his hair with two handle-less brushes, one in each hand.

“His hair must be really messy if he needs two brushes,” said Jaya.

“You might need three,” I said.

“Oh, thanks! My hair isn’t that messy, is it?” She poked a curl back into her bun. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“It looks good messy,” I said.

We passed empty lots, some with brownstones going up, some with old barns falling down. “Look, is that a goat?” said Jaya. We passed a woman in an apron standing on a chair, polishing the window with a piece of crumpled newspaper, a cat with its nose to the glass and its ears turned forward, another cat with its ears flattened back against its head, a whole family sitting around a table eating soup, and a man at a desk writing in a big ledger.

It was funny only getting to see the beginnings of things. We saw a man start to walk across a room, a woman start to talk to someone out of sight, three men start to lift a piano—but we were always gone before they’d finished.

Jaya waved at a little girl in a window. We were gone before she could wave back.

“I’d hate to live next to this train, but it’s fun seeing into all the houses,” I said.

“My sister’s boyfriend lives next to the El up in Harlem,” said Jaya. “She complains about the noise, but Marc says he doesn’t even hear it anymore.”

“The trains are quieter in our time, though,” I said.

“The lab is in SoHo,” said Jaya. “Do we have to change to a crosstown train somewhere?”

“No,” I said, “this is the right train. We get off at Bleecker Street. It should head east pretty soon.”

It did, with a stomach-turning lurch and a screech that stabbed me through both ears and smashed together in the middle of my brain. After a block or two, it lurched, screeched, and turned again. From there it was a straight shot downtown.

“Isn’t this our stop?” Jaya grabbed my sleeve as our train pulled into the Bleecker Street station. The doors banged shut behind us and the train roared away, shaking the platform. Jaya pushed through the station doors and ran down the stairs to the street, holding up her skirt so she wouldn’t trip.

“43 South Fifth Avenue,” she said, reading the number on the building on the corner. “The lab’s at number 35—that’s downtown from here. Wow, none of this looks the tiniest bit familiar.”

I hurried after her. The elevated tracks threw gloomy shadows over the low, rundown buildings. “It’s all NYU buildings in our time,” I said.

Jaya stopped. “Look, I think this is it.”

We had come to a large, dirty, plain-looking factory building on a block of similar buildings. It said 33–35 over the door.

“Do we just, like, knock?” I asked.

Jaya shook her head. “It’s Tesla’s lab. He’s the greatest living inventor. Want to bet it’s going to have an electric bell, at least?”

It did. In fact, it had several. The chipped enameled plaque next to the bottom button read Gillis & Geoghegan, Steamfitters’ Supplies. The one above it had a simple card that read N. Tesla. Jaya reached out a gloved finger and pressed it.

Nothing happened for a long time.

Jaya pressed the bell again.

“Give him a minute, Jaya. I don’t think they had intercoms back then,” I said.

“I don’t see why not. They had telephones,” she argued. She was reaching out to press the bell again when the door opened.

According to the books I’d read, Tesla was a tall man, skeletally thin, with black hair and eyes like blue lightning. This man was shorter than Jaya and stocky, with reddish hair and freckles. He looked like an intelligent calf. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and held in place with black straps. He had a smudge across his forehead, as if he had pushed his hair back with sooty hands.

“Yes?” he asked.

“We’re here to see Mr. Tesla,” I said.

He frowned. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but we need to speak to him. It’s urgent,” I said.

“Well, he isn’t here.”

“That’s all right—we can wait for him in his office,” said Jaya.

Tesla’s employee stared at her for a moment, halfway between puzzled and hostile. “I’m not authorized to admit strangers,” he said.

“Can we talk to Mr. FitzHenry, then?” I asked.

“Never heard of him.”

Jaya and I glanced at each other. Simon’s ancestor must have some other name. That made sense, if you thought about it. The ancestor who was supposed to be Tesla’s assistant wasn’t on his father’s side—it was his grandmother’s grandfather.

“When will Mr. Tesla be back?”

“Not before tomorrow. If you’ll give me your names, I’ll let him know you called.”

“But tomorrow’s too late! We need to see him now,” persisted Jaya.

The man frowned at her suspiciously. “Who are you? Did the Wizard send you?”

“What wizard? Mr. Tesla is a scientist,” I said.

“You know exactly who I mean. The Wizard of Menlo Park—Thomas Edison. Tell him to stop sending his spies. It’s useless. He won’t get anything out of any of us.”

“We have nothing to do with Edison! We’ve never even met him,” said Jaya. She sounded convincingly outraged. “We need to talk to Mr. Tesla right away about a matter of extreme importance. Believe me, he will want to talk to us. Let us in at once, please.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

“Then tell us where to find him. He’ll be very angry when he finds out you kept us away.”

The man’s smudged forehead wrinkled. I could see he was picturing his boss angry. “All right. He’s giving a lecture at the Electric Club,” he said.

“The Electric Club? Where’s that?”

“17 East 22nd Street, near Fifth Avenue,” said the man. “He won’t be back in the lab until tomorrow. If you’ll leave a card, I’ll tell him you called.”

“We’ll go see him at the Electric Club, thanks,” said Jaya.

“Suit yourselves,” said the man, and shut the door in our faces.