Throwback, p.19
Throwback, page 19
High above the white skyscraper, a shooting star made its way through a thick spattering of white dots across the night sky. “You know,” Corey said, “in the future you don’t see stars like that in New York City.”
“They blow ’em all up?” Oscar asked.
“Too much ambient light,” Corey said. “The city will be full of cars capable of going seventy or eighty miles an hour, and lots of tall buildings.”
“Well, nothing like that one, I imagine!” Oscar exclaimed. “It’s the tallest in the world, by far.”
“Three of them will surpass it, in about fifteen years,” Corey said. “A few years later there’ll be buildings of glass and steel, skyscrapers on every block in midtown and downtown, towers that rise and fall and are built again. These tracks? They’ll be lifted off street level, into an elevated rail—and when there’s no need for freight trains anymore, it becomes a park called the High Line. Everything in the city is lit—parks, offices, streets. Electricity runs the city. Light is everywhere. It’s so bright it blocks the stars.”
Oscar was staring at him, dumbfounded. “Who needs them, then? Where you’re going, it sounds like you’ve got the stars in your hands.”
Corey smiled. He looked at Quinn, but her eyes were rimmed with red. “I’ll miss you.”
Oscar put his arm on her shoulder. “Hey. Maybe he’ll be back. I think he likes the stars. And some other very precious things.”
The three of them turned to the river. A barge, close to the New Jersey shore, let out a low toot, moving slowly toward the Statue of Liberty. Corey closed his eyes, reached into his pocket, and held his cell phone.
He felt Quinn’s arms around him. And he heard a soft whisper in his ear. “I’ll always be with you.”
“Me, too,” Corey replied.
He closed his eyes. And he thought of home.
36
Corey’s head was resting on a railroad tie. He sat bolt upright in a bed of gravel between tracks, surrounded by dried weeds and grasses. Quinn and Oscar were gone, but he heard a gasp behind him. When he spun around, his face was inches away from a pair of overalls.
“Whoa, where’d you come from, bro?” Above him loomed a guy in a baseball cap, leaning on a rake. “I coulda sworn nobody was here.”
“What day is it?” Corey blurted.
“Your unlucky day,” the guy said. “Because the High Line closes at ten, and I gotta kick you out. Your parents here, too?”
“No, it’s just me.” Standing, Corey glanced around. Just ahead, a high-rise hotel straddled the tracks. A car horn sounded below him, along with bursts of laughter and pounding rap music. He was on the High Line trestle, above streets and shops and restaurants. Home. Glancing downtown, he saw no sign of the white Woolworth tower, although he knew it was there, hidden behind a dense thicket of glass skyscrapers.
Corey opened his hand. His phone was pinging notifications.
“Whoa. Dude. Look at you. Your shirt’s all ripped. Your face is cut up. What happened?” the guard said, his brow creased with concern.
“It’s a long story,” Corey replied.
“I guess so. You just stay here a minute. Don’t move.” He turned and ran in the opposite direction, ducking into a shed tucked into the side of the High Line corridor. He came out with a folded blue work shirt and a big wad of moistened paper towels. “You’re a big guy, this’ll probably fit.”
“Thanks,” Corey said. As he took off his ripped shirt, the guy ran the wet paper towels down Corey’s back. It stung, but it felt refreshing. The towel was red and mottled with pebbles when the guy pulled it away.
“Best I can do,” the guy said. “None of my business, but I think you gotta get yourself home. Can I get you a cab? It’ll be on me. As long as you don’t live in, like, Pennsylvania.”
Corey smiled. The shirt was way too baggy, but the fabric felt nice. “No thanks, I have my MetroCard. But that’s really nice of you. I’ll bring the shirt back.”
“Gift of the New York City Parks Department.” The guard smiled, and began leading him toward a locked gate. “Just don’t let them know.”
Corey nearly slept past the Ninety-Sixth Street station, but the conductor’s voice woke him just in time. As he trudged up the steps to the sidewalk, a gust of autumn air blew in from Central Park across the street.
At the top of the stairs, he kept going straight. He knew the park would feel really good right then. Going home, waking everybody up, explaining what had happened and how he’d failed to save Maria—that wouldn’t feel good.
The yellow taxis that barreled down Central Park West scared him. They looked like they were going ten times as fast as Corey remembered. The high-rises seemed ready to pounce. Even the trees seemed somehow too big. He’d only been away a short time, but the city had grown a hundred years older round him, and it would take a while for his brain to catch up. He wondered what Quinn would say about all of this. It dawned on him that she could not possibly still be alive. And that made him feel a little wobbly.
He plopped down on a park bench, watching two dogs playfully roll around on the grass. His phone pinged again in his pocket, and he decided it was probably time to answer his messages. He couldn’t pull the phone out, though, without extracting all the other junk inside—the passport, the old wallet, the bills. He set them down on the bench and scrolled through the list of messages. They were mostly from Mom, Dad, and Papou. He’d get back to them in a minute. They’d be glad he was safe and sound. But the message that caught his eye was the last one.
From Leila.
im back. where ru? pls pls pls pls answer!!!!!
With a deep breath, Corey answered her.
me too. my trip was a big FAIL. am in cp jst inside 96th. u?
He was pretty shocked when she answered in about a nanosecond.
dont move. am close by. b right there.
Corey texted her an okay, then looked at the text from Papou, sent an hour ago:
Hi! Visiting the house, believe it or not. No one knows where you went.
Hurry back, we all want to see you!
Corey smiled. Papou had returned. Which meant he may have finally come clean to Mom and Dad. At least that was one secret Corey wouldn’t have to keep.
He pocketed the phone again and reached for the pile on the park bench. The passport on top had fallen open. He lifted it and stared at the photo of his stoic-looking ancestor with the glaring eyes and walrus mustache. “Sorry we didn’t meet, old Evanthis,” he murmured. “You look like a super-fun guy.”
Tucked under the passport was the thin leather wallet that Ratboy had thrown out along with his stuff. Corey figured it was something stolen from someone else. But when he picked it up, a carefully folded-up sheet of paper fell out. Corey unfolded it to see a photo of Ratboy’s face staring out at him under the word Wanted. The first thing he noticed was that Ratboy’s real first name was Eero. The second thing were the words “Thats me!!!” scribbled proudly atop the mug shot. Under the photo was a list of aliases. Aside from Ratboy, they included Finnin Haddie, the Swede, the Snake, the Blade, and Rod the Rodent.
“Coreeeeeey!” Corey did not spin around fast enough to avoid being attacked by a flying Leila. She leaped onto the bench, tackling him to the green wooden slats and sending the wallet and flyer onto the ground. “You’re aliiiiiive! I thought you were dead!”
“So you’re showing your joy by attacking me?” Corey said.
Leila sat up, letting him go. “I can do it, Corey. It’s so crazy. I can hop like you. My aunt is a cat thing!”
“Slow down, Leila,” Corey groaned. “My back is killing me and I had a really, really bad day.”
“Okay. Okay.” Leila took a deep breath. “Auntie Flora is one of those transspeciated people, or whatever you call it. Like Smig. It turns out she passed the time-travel gene to me, the way your papou passed it to you. That happens. It doesn’t always go to sons and daughters. I didn’t believe I could do it, Corey. But when you didn’t come back, I thought you were in trouble. Or—or worse. So I had to try. Auntie Flora told me how to get to where you went—”
“Wait. Is this a joke? You went back to nine-eleven?”
“Look at me, Corey. This is not my joking face. I said I tried. But I went too early. I got there the night before.”
“But you’re not a Throwback, Leila!” Corey reminded her. “What did you think you were doing?”
“That’s my point, Corey. What was I doing? I honestly don’t know. When I got back, I felt like my brain had been put through a meat grinder. I kept trying to remember exactly what happened, but everything was mush. I know I was worried about you. I know I was thinking your mission wouldn’t work, and if it didn’t then maybe . . .” Leila turned away.
“You thought maybe I died,” Corey said softly. “In the attack.”
“Well . . . yeah. But what’s wrong with me, Corey? Why can’t I remember the details? Too traumatic?” Leila sighed and turned away. “That’s what my shrink would say.”
Corey shrugged. “I don’t know. I wish I could forget too.”
“Why?” Leila said. “What happened?”
Corey thought for a moment. How could he explain it all—the passport, the Gash, Horace Filcher and Haak’s Pawnshop, ooga-ooga boys, the Better Ridgefield Hotel, West Side cowboys, Oscar, Ratboy . . . and Quinn? How could he explain Quinn to anyone?
“Let’s go to the house,” Corey said. “Papou says he’s there. I can tell you both at the same time.” He scooped up the passport, the wallet, the flyer, and all the other random stuff that had fallen to the ground. Stuffing them into his pocket, he turned toward the exit.
“Corey?” Leila said, walking up beside him. “I have never seen you wear that shirt.”
“Yeah. My shirt ripped. I got into a fight.”
“And what’s that in your back pocket?”
“I don’t know.” Corey stopped. His hand reached around back and felt a corner of cloth. He pulled it out and brought it around front.
It was a red bandanna that smelled of kerosene.
He smiled. Taking a deep breath, he shoved it back and began heading for the exit. “It’s something a friend gave me.”
37
It felt great to be home, but it felt horrible to have to tell Papou the truth. Corey shook as he and Leila walked down the stairs to the ground-floor apartment. Through the windows, he could see that the front living room was dark, and he had the sudden urge to run away.
Corey tried his apartment key, but it didn’t fit. “Jammed,” he said.
“You probably bent it,” Leila said. “I do that all the time.”
From behind them, a cat meowed. “Not now!” Leila hissed.
Corey turned to see an enormous white cat lumber away down the street. “Is that . . . ?”
“Auntie Flora, aka Catsquatch. We’ll deal with her later.” Leila pressed her face to the window. “I think someone’s in the kitchen.”
Corey rapped gently but firmly on the door. When no one answered, he tried again. Just as he was reaching for the buzzer, the door swung open. An old-time movie star with a carefully groomed silver beard and a cashmere sweater beamed at them. “Heyyy, welcome! Long time no see, huh?”
Corey had to blink his eyes. “Papou?”
“I know, I look like I’m about a hundred years old, right? Come in, come in!” He ushered them both into the living room, turning on the overhead lights. “How about I throw in a log and start a fire, like the old days?”
“Papou, you . . . you . . .” Corey sank into a plush sofa facing a brick fireplace. Leila and he exchanged a baffled look as she sat stiffly next to him. Sunday New York Times magazines were stacked high on the coffee table, and all were open to the crossword puzzles. Every square was filled in with pen. “Wow, Papou, you clean up really nice. When did you get here?”
“Ha! Nicely! I clean up nicely,” he declared, taking some kindling from a pile in a brass bucket. “Take care of your adverbs, paithi mou, and they will take care of you! Well, let’s see, I guess we got here around noon. Your mother was pretty galferstabbed, as you can imagine.”
Leila cocked her head. “Galfer—?”
“Flabbergasted,” Corey said. “He does anagrams on the spot.”
“Bravo!” Papou said, beaming.
“Papou, you said we,” Corey said. “‘We got here around noon.’ Who’s we? You didn’t bring Smig, did you?”
Papou put his finger to his lip. “Shhhh. But that’s funny.”
He had a big, expectant smile as he kneeled by the hearth. With quick, practiced movements, he threw in the kindling and rolled up some old newspapers among them. Then, after laying a log on top, he set the papers aflame. “There,” he said, sitting back on an armchair. “So, Corey. Catch me up. I want every detail.”
Corey swallowed hard. He realized that Papou knew. He had to know. And yet he was so upbeat, so excited about his own return to the family. “You’re amazing, Papou. Really brave.”
“I know,” Papou replied with a laugh. “Tell me about you!”
“I’m—I’m sorry,” Corey replied, fighting back the urge to cry. “I’m so, so sorry. I tried. I really did. It just didn’t work. But I can try again. I will. I promise. There’s just one thing. I—I think I have to tell Mom and Dad. About the time traveling. Everybody has to know.”
“Yes, of course,” Papou said. “That was always part of the plan. Just as we said—”
“It’s more than that. I had a scare, Papou. It was an accident. I went back a hundred years ago and almost got stuck in time.”
Papou leaned forward. “Oh?”
“Corey?” Mrs. Fletcher was coming down the stairs now, dressed in a nightgown. “Where on earth have you been all day?”
Corey took a deep breath. He looked at his grandfather, who gave a nod. “I have a lot to say, Mom,” Corey said. “But I need to say it with everybody here. The whole family.”
His mother gave him a worried look. “All right,” she said tentatively. “I’ll go get Zenobia and your dad.”
As she went upstairs, Papou stuck a poker in the fire and jostled the log. Sparks flew, rising upward. Corey’s mind tumbled back a few hours, to a hundred years earlier. He thought about the small fires in the Gash. The coal furnace in the Tenth Avenue locomotive. The stars above the Hudson River. The flames that exploded from the top floors of the World Trade towers . . .
“Corey? Is that you?”
A voice called out behind him, a voice too strange to be heard in his own house, yet familiar in a way that made him feel light-headed and a little scared. He wasn’t sure if it was real or part of his fever dream.
He turned.
Walking into the room was a woman with silver-black hair pulled into a ponytail, and that dream vanished like a spark into ash.
As Corey stumbled backward, falling on the sofa, she gave him a bright smile. “Guess what? We brought baklava, your favorite!”
He didn’t know her.
But he knew exactly who she was.
He’d seen her on the corner of Washington and Liberty. He’d seen her look at him, frightened and fragile, her face thinner and her hair jet-black. He’d watched her run away from a good but confused husband, taking refuge in a thousand-foot-tall box that would turn her to dust.
“I—I couldn’t stop you,” he said, his mouth bone-dry. “You went back to work. . . .”
“You kicked me out of your office,” Leila said.
Maria Fletcher sat on the arm of the sofa. Her smiling expression turned to confusion and she cast a quick glance to her husband.
“Are you okay, Corey?” Leila said. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Did you . . . change something?” Papou asked. “In the past?”
“No!” Corey shot back. “I wanted to. I tried to. Just like we planned it, on our walk from the park! You had just come back from Canada. You were homeless. You’d gone back four times to nine-eleven, to try to keep her from going to work in the tower!”
Papou got up from the chair and sat by Corey, taking him by the hand. His eyes were intense and urgent. “Yiayia and I live in Maine, Corey. I haven’t been to Canada in years.”
Corey was short of breath now. He turned to his grandmother. “And you . . . how did you escape?”
“I never worked in the World Trade Center, Corey,” she said.
“No, you did!” Corey exclaimed. “Of course you did. At Karelian Group, in import-export!”
“Import-export, yes, but I’ve never heard of that firm,” she said with a shrug, “and I’ve been in that business all my life, so I’ve heard of all of them. Our company’s office was uptown.”
Leila was tapping on her phone. “Corey . . . ,” she said, her eyes fixed on the screen, “I’m looking at search results here. There is no Karelian Group. Does this have something to do with your time-hop?”
She didn’t know.
Leila didn’t know, and neither did Papou.
Their memories had adjusted to a new reality. A reality he had caused.
But how?
Corey’s mouth felt like sandpaper. For a moment he said nothing, for fear his head might fly off. Now his whole family was coming down the stairs. If they were talking to him, asking him questions, he didn’t hear them. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion.
He was picturing Ratboy’s face but wasn’t sure why.
Slowly he dug his hand into his pocket and fished out the wanted flyer. Shaking, he unfolded it and looked at the leering black-and-white photo of the man who had tried to kill him. The man who had died on his own knife, in a blaze set by the lantern he had smashed.
Corey ignored the list of aliases this time. Instead he focused on the label directly under his image.
His real name.
Eero Karelian.
I got me an education, fat man, he’d bragged to Oscar Schein. I’m gonna be in business someday, buying and selling in some fancy skyscraper while you’re passed out in your own piss.
In the history of New York, Ratboy was destined to succeed. But you can’t succeed if you’re not alive.
