“Vite! Vite! Rapidement!” Elise hisses as I follow her into the kitchen.
Franklin and James Wilson sit with tankards of ale at a big, wooden table in the middle of the kitchen. Like the wood room, its walls are stone and its light comes from lanterns and the small, wavy-glass windows up high at the ceiling. And it has the biggest fireplace I’ve ever seen—so tall I could have stood inside without bending, so wide I could have lain down twice end to end. Franklin is right. Even though two small fires burn in that hearth, the kitchen is cool.
A pot of soup hangs from a hook over one fire. Elise picks up two chickens on a spit, sets them over the other fire, and shows me how she wants them turned. She’s so harsh with me, I want to tell her to go jump. But she’s so beautiful and I so want her to like me and to feel her touch again. And Franklin’s warning still echoes in my head. So, I sit on that stool, and turn that spit, and keep my mouth shut, and listen.
“I’m sorry, Doctor Franklin,” Wilson says. “I tried m’best, but I could no’ persuade them.”
Franklin shrugs, then sighs, then shakes his head. “Never mind grandson Temple. The important thing is the delegates have elected Washington president of our convention.”
“Yer words convinced ‘em,” Wilson says. “That speech you gave me to read recommending they appoint Washington instead of you was greeted with great attention and respect.”
Washington? I wonder. Are they talking about George Washington?
“I am most gratified and relieved,” Franklin says. “I am too old to serve. And Washington really is the man to lead the convention—our one true national hero, admired by all, no matter what state they are from. Only Washington has the force and wisdom to unite and lead us.”
Are they talking about the Constitutional Convention?
I’d read a little about Washington at the convention in one of the books Pop brought home for me to do my paper. The idea I got was that Washington hadn’t said or done much—that he’d been more of a figurehead than leader. But according to Franklin, maybe that hadn’t been—or wouldn’t be?—the case.
“No, I couldn’t be more pleased by Washington’s selection,” Franklin says. “I just wish the delegates had agreed to employ grandson Temple as secretary to the convention. For me, it would have solved a number of problems.”
“They chose William Jackson, instead,” Wilson says. “They felt Jackson’s service on Washington’s staff in the war entitled—”
“Let’s not mince words! Temple has ruined his reputation with his carousing and foppery. I’d hoped this job as secretary might repair it. I’d also hoped to review his notes between sessions. My memory is failing. If I am to help find compromise, I must have the delegates’ positions firmly in my mind. But, I will find another solution. Pity. Temple’s presence might have allowed me to miss a session or two. I have so many irons in the fire, and some days, like today, my health seems … not all that it has been.”
“I’d be willing to take notes for ye, Doctor.”
“How kind, Mr. Wilson! How very kind! But no. You are one of our best lawyers. The delegates will need your knowledge of government and constitutional theory. You must remain focused on the issues, not my needs. I will manage. I do worry about Temple though—what will become of him.” Franklin’s voice has dropped almost to a whisper. Then it comes back strong. “But I waste your time. What else today?”
“General Washington appointed a three-man committee to write the convention’s rules, including his fair-haired boy from New York, Alexander Hamilton.”
“As is right and proper. After all, we wouldn’t be having this convention without the work of Alexander Hamilton and James Madison to call us all together. And speaking of Mr. Madison, how fares his plan for a completely new government?”
“There’s much resistance. Many o’ the delegates believe we’re here only to make modest adjustments to the existing Articles of Confederation.”
“Reasonable, since that is the job our Congress up in New York gave to us.”
“But Doctor Franklin, can you no’ see those articles aren’t worth the ink with which they were written? Our national government is a laughing stock—with only the Congress to run it and it having no power to compel any state to do anything, including pay any tax to fund it!”
“Yes, and since you served in Congress when we wrote those articles back in ‘76, you’ll remember we did that intentionally. After all the years of tyranny from King George and his Parliament, no one wanted a strong central government. I am still not convinced we need one.”
“Are ye daft, man? Our government’s penniless! It canno’ pay its debts here or abroad, which means it canno’ borrow any more since no one trusts it. And it canno’ pay to raise a national army or navy, which means it canno’ defend us. It has no power to settle disputes between the states, which are many and which may lead to civil war. If that happens, England, France, and Spain will pick us apart like sharks at a bloody corpse. We’d be back to where we were before we broke with England—under a foreign thumb. All those years of war—all our dead—for naught.”
All of a sudden, I’m not in Franklin’s kitchen anymore. I’m back with Mom and Pop and Penny, watching as the horse-drawn caisson and Green Beret honor guard bear Gus’s flag-draped coffin to his grave at Arlington.
Which is when Elise smacks my arm and points to the soup.
“Stir, boy! Before it burns!”
That gets me mad again. My hands clench into fists. Who is she to smack me and call me “boy?”
“You may be right,” Franklin says to Wilson.
“I know I’m right. And I also know Mr. Madison’s plan may well be the solution. It calls for a strong central government with power o’er the states. You’ve read it. What do ye think?”
“I think … that I am prepared to listen to all that the delegates have to say.”
“Ah, keep’n yer cards close to yer vest, as always.”
“Not at all. Just endeavoring to keep an open mind.”
“Well, I must go. Clients await. And I’ve promised to bring Gouverneur Morris and Robert Morris to the Indian Queen to talk more with the Virginians about Madison’s plan. Join us.”
“Thank you, but I must rest. Tomorrow night, however, I am hosting the lads from the Union Fire Company for our monthly meeting. They are all likely men, mostly merchants, tradesman, and artisans. Perhaps you might bring some of the Pennsylvania and Virginia delegates? They might find the views of ordinary citizens helpful to their thinking.”
“Aye, they might at that. And you always set a fine table.”
“My Sally’s doing. And Elise’s, of course.” Franklin points to my tormentor now rolling out dough. “I want the delegates to consider this home a place of respite during the convention. They will need a place to retreat to—away from the heat of debate—for refreshment and to join with each other as friends, no matter how their views differ. Might you spread word of my invitation?”
“Aye, it would be my honor, Doctor.” He takes Franklin’s hand.
When Wilson has gone, Franklin turns to Elise and me. “Do you hear? This house may have an important role in the repair of our government! Elise, do everything you can to make tomorrow’s meal your best ever!”
“But of course, Doctor,” Elise says.
He’s as excited as a little kid going to his first Phillies game. Which means he isn’t even thinking about how to get me home. My anger spikes.
“And Marcus, I commend you. Not a sound, just as I instructed,” he says.
“As you instructed? Listen, old man, you and me better get something straight! I ain’t here to do what you say!”
“I beg your pardon?” Franklin says, looking confused.
“I ain’t here to be a prisoner in your house, or chop your wood, or stir your soup, or keep my mouth shut just ‘cuz you say! Capisce?”
“Cap—whatever do you mean?”
“I mean you ain’t the boss of me and I ain’t your effing slave! You got me into this mess! Get me out! NOW!”
“Hey, boy, you watch your mouth!” Elise commands, smacking me again, this time in the chest.
“And quit hitting me, wouldja!”
Franklin’s face has turned thin-lipped and cold. He fixes me with a hard-eyed stare.
“Clearly, Marcus, you do not appreciate your position. Let us review. You have arrived in a world you do not know, not its customs or manners or the ways in which its people speak and act. You have no money or possessions, except your clothes, which are strange and will call attention to you. You know no one, have no employment, and have no place to lay your head or eat at table, except possibly this house. Nor have you anyone to vouch for you or explain your presence here, except possibly me. At your age, you may very well be mistaken for a runaway apprentice or indentured servant and jailed or sold into bondage. That is your situation as I see it. Were we playing a game of whist, I would not want your cards. Of course, if you think differently, you are free to leave and make your own way.”
So much for my anger. If I hadn’t understood my “position” before, I certainly do now—including that whether Franklin will help me is entirely up to him.
“Now, I have no intention of exploiting you,” he continues. “But in this house, everyone works, everyone contributes what they can. There is always plenty to do to keep food on our table and our home in good order.
“Also, I will have to explain you to my daughter Sally, her husband Richard, to young Benjamin—their son and my grandson—to their other small children, and to my other grandson, Temple, all of whom live here with me. It will look strange indeed if you refuse to contribute. You will stir resentment and make yourself disliked, which I cannot have.”
“Look, Franklin—”
“Have you no manners?” Elise snaps, pinching the back of my hand. “He is Doctor Franklin!”
“Whatever! Doctor Franklin. Look, I just want to get home.”
“I know you do,” he says, softening. “And I want to send you. Far, far more than you can imagine. You do not belong here. You are not of this time—or, possibly, of this world. I don’t know. Did I open a passage between our future and your past? Or do you come from a world that somehow parallels ours? Will your presence here change what is supposed to be? Will you change history in a way it is not supposed to be changed—somehow threaten or destroy the future? And what is your absence doing to wherever you come from? If I could, I’d put you to sleep until I’d found a way to return you. But that is impractical.”
“Hey, you could always just shoot me dead.”
“I could,” he agrees, seeming to consider it. “But there’s still the question of what that might do to where you come from. I wouldn’t want the Great Creator blaming me for a cosmic imbalance.”
I look at him closely. His eyes twinkle and he’s biting his lip to keep from laughing.
“Thanks, Doc. You’re all heart—”
“Pity, since it’s my head that I’ve always relied upon.”