Throwback, p.8
Throwback, page 8
8:07 a.m. Normal time she emerged from C train at Fulton Street Station (Fulton and Broadway). Walked west on Fulton toward World Trade Center. Could not find her. Possibly took other train besides C.
8:07–8:30 a.m. Coffee, newspaper, etc. I searched for her in every coffee shop from Cedar to Duane and from Washington to Broadway. Still leaves plenty more!
8:30 a.m. Approximate arrival at office at Karelian Group, 95th floor, Tower 2.
Corey focused on the 8:07–8:30 part. That was the big unknown. Just because his yiayia usually went to a coffee shop didn’t mean she always did.
It was time for Corey to test his hunch. He had a feeling about where she’d gone this morning.
Reaching into his backpack, he pulled out the yellowed passport of his great-great-grandfather. “I can’t pronounce your name,” he whispered, staring into the grim, thickly mustached face, “but happy name day anyway. And if you’re in a place where you can look down on this day, please help me out. Please.”
People were now thronging out of the subway stop a block away, filling the plaza. Corey peered around the corner of the truck. The ambulance was stopped where he had been a few moments ago. He couldn’t see Clifton Swank through the crowd.
Good.
Clutching the passport and the photo of his grandmother, Corey sprinted south across the plaza. “Go home!” he shouted, dodging commuters left and right. “Everybody, go home!”
No one stopped. A few people looked at him like he was crazy. This was useless. As he reached the edge of the plaza, he saw a sign for Washington Street, heading south. He barreled across the street, narrowly missing being hit by a biker and two taxis. Washington Street was narrow and dark, and as he took a left on Cedar, he checked the address.
Instead of a churchy-looking building, 155 Cedar was a simple brownstone, actually brown. A bulletin board in a glass case announced ST. NICHOLAS GREEK ORTHODOX CHURCH with a long list of future events—events Corey knew would never occur. He climbed the stoop and pulled open a glass door.
The entry foyer looked like any other Greek church—a Christ icon on a table in the center, a wooden table with square wooden cubbies for different-sized candles and donations, another table containing a sand pit to insert the lit candles. Behind the foyer was a church that stretched to the back of the building, with dark wooden pews.
A silver-haired man, wearing a navy-blue suit, was picking up papers from the pews. “May I help you, young man?” he said in a thick Greek accent.
“I’m looking for Maria Fletcher?” Corey said.
The man knitted his eyebrows. “I don’t know the name.”
“She looks like this.” Corey ran to him, holding out the photo of her, now stained from the fall into the gutter. “Her grandfather’s name was . . .” He took a deep breath and tried to remember the pronunciation. “Yvonne . . . theese. Evanthis.”
“Ah, today is his name day,” the man said.
“Yes!” Corey’s pulse raced. “Yes, that’s exactly right! So I thought . . . maybe she might be here. Do people come to the church on name days?”
The man shrugged. “Some do, yes. Would you like to sit and wait?”
Corey checked his watch. 8:13.
If he was right, she would show up any minute. If he was wrong, she was on her way to work.
“I have to check something,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “If she comes in, tell her to stay, okay? What’s your cell number?”
The man laughed. “This is a church, not a prison. There are no cells.”
“Cell phone!” Corey said, grabbing a flyer from a table. “Here. I’ll write my phone number on this. Please text me if she comes.”
“Text?”
“Call!”
“I’m Taso, and here’s my card, if you need to call me,” the man said, reaching into his pocket for a business card. “If she arrives, whom shall I say is asking?”
Corey almost said her grandson. But she didn’t have a grandson in 2001. “Her husband. I mean, I’m not her husband. I . . . work for him. This is important.”
He raced out of the church, back the way he came. He examined the face of every person on the sidewalk. He ducked into a coffee shop, a Mexican restaurant, and a burger place, making sure to check every newsstand. As he emerged onto the plaza again, he checked the time. 8:21.
On the plaza, people were crisscrossing every which way. They walked faster than people in the present. It took Corey a moment to realize why. No one was looking down at a phone. Which made it easier to see faces.
“Maria Fletcher!” Corey didn’t care if he sounded like a nutcase. “Maria!”
A cabdriver, stopped at a light, hung his head out the driver window, and sang the “Maria” song from West Side Story.
“Not funny!” Corey snapped.
“You looking for somebody?” he said.
Corey held out the photo. “My grandmother. It’s an emergency! A big one.”
“Import-export, right?” the guy said, nodding. “The Karelian Group?”
Corey nearly dropped the photo. “Wait, you know her?”
“Nahhh, but I seen the face. This is my beat. The workers tip good, so I hang here every morning. That gang—the Karelian people? A lot of ’em do the Cosmic Diner for breakfast. Can’t guarantee, but we could check it out.”
Corey jumped into the cab. The driver’s ID plate said his name was Eddie. Eddie did a U-turn, leaning on the horn. He sped west on Liberty Street and took a sharp turn on Church. As he wove in and out of traffic, Corey checked his call log.
The last message was from Leila. From the future. From the network account his parents paid for. Many, many years from now.
Would that even work now?
Quickly he pulled out Taso’s business card and tapped out the number.
Nothing.
“Head back!” Corey said. “To the Greek church.”
“But we—”
“Now! St. Nicholas’s. Do you know where it is?”
Eddie yanked the steering wheel to the left. “Fasten that belt, kid. I own these streets!”
14
Corey wished he could time travel through red lights. In New York City they felt like eternities. Corey was racing up the steps of the Saint Nicholas Greek Orthodox Church only moments after he’d left, but it felt like it had been hours. Behind him, Eddie the cabdriver shouted, “Good luck!”
It was 8:31.
Taso was standing at the bottom of the stoop. “I attempted to phone you,” he said softly. “Mrs. Vlechos arrived shortly after you left. But she told me she did not know you—”
“Thanks!” Corey blurted, barging through the front door.
“But—young man—” Taso sputtered.
Vlechos. That was the family name before it was changed to Fletcher. Corey raced through the front foyer, where a single slim, lit white candle stood in the sand pit near the icon. He stepped into the church. It was eerily quiet. A woman sat hunched at the end of a pew to his right. She was wearing a windbreaker, her head covered with a faded scarf. “Maria!” he shouted.
As he ran around the line of pews, he could barely breathe. What was he supposed to say? How did someone approach a grandmother he never knew? “Listen, I know you’re not going to believe this . . . ,” he began.
She looked up slowly. Beneath the scarf, her eyes were watery and gray, her face wrinkled. She gave him a bewildered smile.
Corey sprang back. “You’re not Maria, are you?”
“Martha,” she said.
“My boy, she’s not here!” Taso’s voice called out behind him.
Corey spun around to see the gray-haired man walking down the aisle. “Where is she?” Corey blurted. “You said she came here! You said you’d keep her—”
“I couldn’t physically restrain her, my child. When I mentioned what you’d said, she grew agitated. She said she needed to get to work. She couldn’t have gotten far.” Taso turned and pointed to the right. “You may catch up to her if you hurry.”
The words spilled out of Corey’s mouth so fast they sounded like another language. “Please, when I go, clear the church. You leave, too. Go uptown while you can. Something very bad is going to happen. I can’t explain. Just shut down and go. I know you think I’m crazy, but trust me!”
He couldn’t wait for an answer. It was a church, so he said a silent prayer as he ran outside, jumped down the steps, and headed right toward Washington Street. She would be walking to the tower. There was only one route. He turned right again, north toward the wide plaza.
8:36.
The planes were in the air, on the way from Boston. The terrorists were in the pilots’ seats. People had already died. Corey felt a wave of nausea.
There.
She was waiting for the light on Liberty Street.
He had never seen her in his life, but he knew. The hair matched the photos he had seen. Something about the posture, too. She was nearly as tall as he was, slender and dressed in elegant brown shoes, a gray skirt, and a light waist-length jacket.
“Mariaaaaa!”
She turned, looking around curiously. This time there were no surprises, no mistaken identity. The face was hers. But the sidewalk was narrow and jammed with people. She wasn’t seeing Corey through the crowd.
Corey leaped off the curb and into the street, where the path would be faster. “Over here!”
The blare of a horn blotted out his cry. Behind him, tires screeched. Corey whirled around. A yellow cab bore down on him, trying to swerve out of the way. Its fender clipped him behind the knee, and Corey felt himself rising into the air. He thudded down on the cab’s hood and rolled off, back onto the street.
He landed hard. For a moment he saw black. He leaped to his feet, gasping for air. People were already gathering around. The impact had made him let go of the passport and schedule, and he reached to scoop them up.
But another hand grabbed them first. “Are you all right?” a voice asked.
Surrounded by a growing crowd, standing tall and square-shouldered, was Maria Fletcher.
He grabbed her arm. He couldn’t help himself. Her wrist was warm.
15
“You . . .” Corey spluttered. “I . . .”
She smiled. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft and soothing.
Yes. Yes, she was right, Corey thought. Everything was okay now.
He’d done it. He’d found her!
“You . . . ,” Corey blurted out. “You’re my yiayia.”
Maria Fletcher shook him off and gave an odd smile, dusting off the passport. “No, I’m afraid I’m not. . . .”
“Okay. I—I know this is impossible to believe,” he said, “but you cannot go to work today. We have to leave. You and me. I’ll show you where to go.”
She wasn’t listening. She was staring at the photo inside the passport. “Um, where did you get this?”
Her smile was gone now. She looked at Corey with a mix of curiosity and bafflement.
“Papou gave it to me,” Corey said. “Your husband. Gus Fletcher. Listen, I can explain—”
“Gus gave you my grandfather’s passport?” she shot back. “Why?”
Corey froze. “That’s . . . that’s harder to answer than you think.”
“And what’s this?” She was scanning the schedule Papou had given him. “That’s my routine. Are you some kind of intern for a private investigator? What’s going on here? How old are you?”
Corey reached for her wrist. “Just . . . just come with me, okay? It’s a long story. Please!”
She pulled away, shoving the passport and the schedule back to Corey. “Just . . . return these back to him,” she said, backing away. “Honestly. Tell him I need my space. This is not helping—”
“You’re going to die!” Corey blurted.
Now a New York City cop was approaching from the left. “Uh, excuse me, are you the kid who was hit by the vehicle?”
“It’s okay!” Corey replied, turning to face the cop. “Just a light tap. I’m fine.”
When he turned back, his grandmother was gone.
“Wait!” Corey shouted, taking off toward Liberty Street. She was halfway across as Corey approached the corner. But before he could reach it, a man in a hooded rain slicker leaped in his way. Corey slipped and steadied himself against a streetlight. “Stop her!” he shouted.
Now the light was red. The man in the slicker was dodging traffic, which was now fast, thick, and suicidal. Corey stood helplessly, watching as the man approached his grandmother from behind, tapping her on the shoulder.
For a moment Corey had a flicker of hope. Maybe the guy had heard him calling his grandmother. Maybe he was going to point her back to Corey. That would at least give him a chance to catch up.
But his hope curdled quickly. Maria was staring directly at the man. Her eyes widened and she backed away, her hand rising to cover her mouth. They were both in profile to him now. And Corey knew exactly who the man was. The only person who would be wearing a hooded raincoat on a clear day like this. A person who did not want to be seen until he was good and ready.
Papou.
His jaw dropped. This was not the Papou of 2001. This Papou was gray bearded and thin, looking not a moment younger than when Corey had last seen him.
I went many times to 2001 . . . , Papou had said, to the day we lost your yiayia . . . I failed again and again.
This was one of those times. Right here and now. This was one of Papou’s time hops. Maria was staring into the face of her husband many years older. And it was freaking her out. Of course.
Corey jumped up and down, waving his arms over the blur of traffic. “Listen to him! He’s trying to save you!” But his voice was lost in the noise.
He watched helplessly as Papou grabbed her arm, but she screamed. Right away a guy in a suit stepped between them, a stranger. Thinking he was a Good Samaritan, he pushed Papou away. Maria turned, running toward the Trade Center.
As the light turned green, Corey sprinted. Papou and Good Samaritan were in a screaming match. His grandmother was disappearing into the crowd. Corey picked up speed.
“Excuse me . . . excuse me. . . .” He pushed his way through the throng of workers, but he could no longer see her.
He had lost her.
Pivoting, he headed toward the One World Trade Center entrance. If he hurried, he could get there first, head her off before she entered the building. He wove through the rushing people like a linebacker. Moments ago, when Corey was in the present, people were grousing at him for being in the way. Now he was mad at them for the same reason.
Mad? How could he be mad? They were going to die!
He squeezed by people who were talking about stock prices. Boyfriends. Shoe sizes. A concert. As if these were the only important things in the world. “Excuse me . . . sorry . . . beep-beep,” he chirped.
“Easy, pal, the sky ain’t fallin’,” a guy grumbled.
Corey spun around, but the man who said that was already by him, heading for the revolving doors for One World Trade Center. People lined up to enter. They were bored and sleepy and annoyed. They were chatting and checking their watches and phones, thinking about the day ahead. There was no throbbing music, no sense of dread, no warning. Corey wished he had more than a Throwback’s skill. He wished he could stop time completely, stop the people cold, so he could take them away from here one by one to the river for safety. He would do that if he could, every one of them, inside the building and out. He would pull away three thousand people in that frozen instant, until the plaza was empty and the building was empty, and when time started again, the madmen would see all the emptiness and change their minds. . . .
There.
As he stood at the entrance, facing away from the building and into the crowd, he saw her.
She was hurrying toward the doors. Toward him. But before he could say a thing, someone else ran in front of her. Again.
This time it was a man in a winter parka, holding his arms wide as if he wanted to hug her. His grandmother stopped in her tracks and screamed. “Gus? What is going on here?”
No. No, no, no, no, no.
This was Papou, too. Without a beard. From a different time hop. From a longer time ago, when he was younger. “I can explain!” Corey shouted, running her way.
But his grandmother wasn’t hearing him. She was bone white, as if she’d found herself in the middle of a nightmare. She turned away from Papou, pushing her way through a revolving glass door. Running for the elevators. Corey swerved wide around the old man. No time to confront him. He wouldn’t be looking out for Corey anyway. He’d taken this time hop long before he knew Corey had the ability. As he entered the building, Corey lost sight of her.
No. There by the turnstiles. She was showing an ID card to a guard.
Corey sprinted after her, but a guard stepped in his way. He was smiling, calm, placid—Why were they all so relaxed? “Hello, son,” he said. “Do you have a pass? Or an appointment?”
“That’s my grandmother!” he said. “She . . . she forgot something!”
The guard looked over his shoulder and called out, “Ma’am?”
“Maria!” Corey called out, but she raced to the elevators without responding.
“Sorry, guy,” the guard said, gesturing to a long desk against the wall. “Just come with me, give me your name, and pick up a pass. Sorry, but you can’t be too careful these days!”
“Okay, listen to me,” Corey said. “No one needs a pass right now. You need to get out of here—”
That was when he heard the boom above. The ground shook so hard he felt his teeth rattle and lost his footing. People fell to the floor around him. Screams rang out.
“What the heck?” the guard said, fishing out a walkie-talkie.
Corey leaped to his feet, ran to the turnstile, and jumped over it. Running toward the elevator, he called out his grandmother’s name.
Above him, he heard a low, sickening crunch. The massive building shook like a subway train. He looked up in time to see a section of the ceiling explode into dust and tumble downward, directly over his head.
