The Christmas Eve Letter: A Time Travel Novel (13 page)

“Enjoy your day, Miss Kennedy.  I look forward to hearing all about it.”

Eve did not turn as she opened the door.  “Thank you, Miss Price, and a good day to you.”

Outside, in the unusually chilly autumn day, Eve took in her new world with the brand new eyes of a child.  The sky appeared bluer, the air an odd mix of smells:  horse manure, burned leaves and coal dust.  She noticed the heavy, wrought-iron lamp posts and the streetcar tracks threading along the cobble streets.  The trees were ablaze in autumn golds and reds, leaves sailing and drifting, carpeting the sidewalks. 

She spotted a two-wheeled Hanson cab, pulled by a single horse, and she waved it down.  It trotted over to the curb and stopped.  The driver sat in the rear on a high seat from which he could look over the top.  Eve opened the cab door and pulled herself and the bulky dress inside.  She sat back, feeling like a trussed up goose.  The corset was tight and binding, the dress a mass of heavy silk and velvet.  Eve wiggled and shimmied, trying to loosen the thing.  A panel slid back, revealing a small open square in the roof.  Framed in it, she saw an eye and part of a gray, bushy mustached face waiting for her to state her destination. 

“Union Square,” Eve said.

The panel slid closed. 

The cab driver clucked at the horse, jiggled the reins and the cab jolted forward and gathered speed, heading downtown.  It swung onto Broadway, fighting its way through wandering pedestrians, the loud tangle of fine carriages, clanging trolleys and horse droppings. 

Rested and more acclimated to her surroundings, Eve found her new world strangely thrilling as she watched 1885 slide by her window in full living color.  She saw bearded, cane-swinging men in tall shiny silk hats, and others in high crowned derbies, most wearing ankle-length topcoats.  They seemed to glide as they walked, chins up, backs erect.

Eve was fascinated by the women’s fashion.  In the unusually chilly day, many had donned hats, ribbon-tied under the chin.  Most wore short, tight-waisted cutaway winter coats; some carried muffs and others wore gloves.  On their feet were button shoes, which appeared and disappeared under the sway of long skirts that were mostly bottle-green, maroon, brown or black. 

She was amazed at the crowds, the traffic and the determined energy and relentless pace that she had previously thought was particular to 21st century New York. 

As Eve watched it all in curious wonder, she had a sudden peculiar thought.  In her time—the 21st century—all these people were long dead, their backgrounds, childhoods, challenges, loves and hates, all gone.  It was as if they’d never existed.  In her time, they were forgotten ghosts, where only the famous were dimly remembered:  the U.S. Presidents, the famous writers, or the super-rich with names like Astor, Vanderbilt or Carnegie. 

But Eve was having a rare and unique privilege.  She was seeing them alive again, moving through their lives in 1885, just as she had moved through hers in the 21st century, the days, weeks, months and years slipping by like a daydream.  Here they were, alive again, real flesh-and-blood human beings, with careers and families, hopes and dreams. 

She had somehow stumbled into their time, like a drunken woman, like an alien from some other planet.  Why was she here?  What strange, ineffable trick had sent her here?

As the cab approached Union Square, the great statue of George Washington loomed ahead.  Eve had been to Union Square many times in the 21st century, but she didn’t recall seeing the statue of George Washington.  Here it was conspicuous and grand, standing on a granite base in a fenced enclosure in the middle of the street.

Eve spotted Millie dressed in a simple long coat and hat, standing meekly on the sidewalk, near a lamppost.  Eve called up to the driver and pointed to Millie. 

Millie lit up, waving.  She advanced to the cab, stepped in, closed the door and sat.

She looked Eve over, proudly.  “Don’t you look fine, Miss Kennedy. Yes, you do look so fine in your outfit.”

“Millie, we’re out of the house now, call me Eve.  Please.”

“Okay, Miss… I mean… But you do look really fine.”

“Thanks, Millie, but it wasn’t easy. The maid who helped me dress this morning is a bit of a bitch.”

“A bitch?” Millie asked, meekly embarrassed.

“You know what I mean.  She’s not so nice,” Eve quickly noted.

“Yes, Miss,” Millie said, averting her eyes.  “You mean Mrs. Barker.”

“You have to admit, Millie, that Mrs. Barker does have quite a bark.”

Millie giggled in her hand at Eve’s little joke.  “Yes.  But she has a good and kind heart, Miss.  She just doesn’t like the extra work on Monday, when I am off.”

“Well, I can’t blame her for that,” Eve said.

Millie looked outside.  “Where would you like to go?”

Eve looked pointedly at Millie.  “I need to go to a pawnshop.”

Millie was startled.  “A… pawn…shop?” she repeated, haltingly.

“Yes.  Do you know where I can find one?”

The driver called down.  “Where to, ladies?”

Millie was a little flustered.  “Well, I know there are some pawnshops in the Bowery.”

Eve called up.  “The Bowery, driver.”

“Any place specific in the Bowery, Miss?”

“I’ll let you know,” Eve said.  “Can you please just drive along?”

“Whatever you say, Miss,” the driver said, curtly.

The cab lurched ahead.

“I never thought you to be the kind who would ever go to a pawnshop, Miss,” Millie said.

Eve felt into her dress pocket for the heart pendant watch.  She didn’t want to part with it, but she needed money.  She needed freedom from both Helen Price and Albert Harringshaw.  She had to get out of that house.

“It’s an emergency, Millie.”

Millie sat back, studying Eve with new eyes.  From the first, she’d known there was something different about Eve, but it was an elusive thing, not easily grasped—it was out of her reach and understanding.  And that first night, Millie had seen the impact Eve had made on Miss Price, Albert Harringshaw and the doctor.  They had studied and observed Eve with wary, curious eyes, as if she had come from some far-off primitive island or, even more shocking, as if she were an incarnate ghost from a séance.  And Miss Price loved to go to séances.  

There was an edge of easy confidence about Eve that Millie had seldom witnessed among women, and it made Eve attractive and exotic.  Millie was delighted to be with Eve on this adventure, because she knew, instinctively, that Eve would inevitably lead her to exceptional experiences and untraveled highways.  Millie’s life was anything but an adventure.  Her days were filled with long, arduous hours of hard work and endless weeks with nothing but more work to look forward to.  Being with Eve was like sailing away on a clipper ship to the far corner of the world.

The cab circled around Union Square and steered onto the Bowery. 

Eve turned to Millie.  “How old are you, Millie?”

“I am twenty-two.”

“Were you born in New York?”

“Yes.  But my parents came from Ireland in 1854.  My mother was a domestic and my father was a carpenter, but he couldn’t always find work.  And then after I was born in 1863, he was killed in the war.”

“Which war?” Eve asked.

Millie eyed her strangely. “The Civil War.  My father was killed at Gettysburg.”

“Oh, of course.  I’m so sorry,” Eve said, quickly.  “Is your mother still alive?”

“No, she died of consumption.”

“Tuberculosis?”

“Yes.  Yes, they call it that now.”

“It must have been hard for you to lose her.  I’m sorry again.”

The finer shops soon fell away and Eve took in cobbler shops, hardware merchants, barber shops, four-story flop houses, beer gardens, banks, theatres and saloons—and there were many saloons.  Men stood slumped in their doorways, smoking cigars, their hats roguishly askew on their heads.  Some blank and suspicious eyes looked back at her.

“Do you live with your brother now?” Eve asked.

“Yes and my older sister, Kathleen.  My younger brother was killed two years ago.”

“How tragic!  How?”

“He got in a knife fight down at Bandit Roost.”

“Bandit Roost.  What is that?”

Millie gave a little shake of her head.  “You don’t know the city at all, do you, Miss?”

“No, Millie, not
this
city.”

“Bandit Roost is down on Mulberry Street.  A lot of gangs are down there.  My brother was a wild boy.  My older brother, Michael, tried to keep him in line, but he couldn’t watch him constantly, could he?”

“Of course not.  I am sorry for your losses, Millie.”

“He was a good lad,” Millie said, staring ahead, as if she could see him.

They moved on, soon surrounded by beer hall dives, music halls and the obvious bordellos.  There was a seediness about this part of town, a stink of stale beer and sweat.  Eve saw people with tired, worn faces slouching along the streets, carrying bundles or babies.  Their eyes were watchful, guarded and sullen.  Men wore heavy beards or mustaches; many had rounded shoulders in their old, heavy coats. 

Eve spotted a faded green shop sign that read PAWNSHOP.  She called to the driver to stop. 

Millie glanced about, suddenly nervous.  “Here, Miss Kennedy?”

“Why not, Millie?  There’s a pawnshop.”

Eve handed the cabby the fare and pushed the door open.  She stepped out, with a tense and alert Millie on her heels.  Eve adjusted her dress and hat, gave a nod of her determined head, and pressed forward, across the crowded sidewalk, past street vendors and their carts.  Eyes watched her, guarded, watchful and sullen.

Just then four boys went tearing across the sidewalk.  They were no more than seven or eight years old, and shabbily dressed.  They charged through the crowds, their eyes wide with hope, their faces pale with fright.  They turned sharply on their heels, darting out of sight into a narrow alley.  A middle-aged, well-dressed man came into view, darting glances about, his face pinched in anger.

“Those street urchins stole my wallet!  Where did the rascals go?”

Two men pointed at the alley.  A stout policeman with a bushy mustache appeared and the victim drew up to him, jabbing a pointed, lighted cigar at the alley.  Both men hurried off in pursuit.

“Watch your purse down here, Miss Kennedy.  There are pickpockets everywhere,” Millie said.

“I take it ladies don’t come down here very often?”

“Often, Miss Kennedy?  Never.”

“Whatever,” Eve mumbled, with a flick of her hand.  “You gotta do what ya gotta do.”

As they approached the shop, Eve noticed an overprinted ad on a brick building. It read
Charles Fletcher’s Castoria
.  “Must be a laxative,” Eve said, at a whisper.  She glanced about at the food carts, the push carts, and the hanging linked sausages.  “God help me,” she said, as she turned to look at the three-story pawnshop.  The broad sign above the door read

PAWNBROKER’S SALE STORE

Eve stood back, looking into the plate-glass windows framed by round columns.  She saw a hanging trumpet and trombone, racks of jewelry, a tea set, ornate vases, a dusty typewriter, cutlery and gold watches. 

Eve sucked in a breath, opened the heavy glass front door and entered, hearing the bell jounce on its coiled spring.  She glanced up at it, startled, then gathered her courage and advanced. 

Outside, Millie’s forehead wrinkled up as she approached the pawnshop.  She heaved out a sigh, looked both ways and followed Eve inside. 

The long room was lit well by overhead gas lamps.  A wooden floor creaked under Eve’s boots.  She passed between two long, wooden display cases covered in glass, holding jewelry, gold watches and jade figurines.  On the wall, she noticed a glossy leather handgun holster, just like the kind they wore in the Wild West.

Eve walked to the front counter, where a man in a gray, bushy mustache stared at her doubtfully.  A younger, thinner man on the other side of the room leaned casually against a display case, puffing on a cigar.  He seemed mildly amused.  His dark hair was lacquered back off his forehead and his small wary eyes and dark beard made him look a bit evil.

Millie took in the scene and chose to stand close to the door, in case she’d have to make a run for it.

Eve walked boldly up to the older man.  He watched her with bland curiosity as she withdrew the gold pendant watch from her dress and laid it on the glass counter.

“How much will you give me for this?” she asked.

The man’s eyes slowly moved down Eve’s neck and chest and then rested on the pendant. 

“Where did you acquire this?” he asked, gazing at Eve in dark flirtation, his eyes roaming her pretty face and lively, unflinching blue eyes.

“What does it matter where I acquired it?  I acquired it.  It’s here.  How much?”

He didn’t move.  He stared.

“You don’t want it?” Eve asked.  “I’m sure there’s somebody in this town who will.”

He snorted a laugh and reached for it. 

Eve put on a brave, calm act, but her heart was thumping in her chest, and she was sweating under the big heaping bundle of a dress. 

Mr. Bushy Mustache held the pendant in his hand.  He popped the catch and lifted a dark eyebrow.  It was ticking.  He closed it and examined the filigree on the back.  He made a little grunting sound.  He reached for a loupe and tucked it into his right eye.  He squinted a careful look at the pendant.  He popped the catch again, zeroing in on one particular detail.  He grunted again, smiling with an expression of shady discovery.

Eve blinked rapidly.  Millie kept throwing startled glances out the window.

The man removed the loupe, placing it, and the pendant, down on the counter.

He squared his beefy shoulders.  “Is this some kind of a joke?” he asked, pursing his lips, his jaw out in a kind of challenge.

“What do you mean?” Eve asked.  “It’s a pendant.  I just want to sell it.”

“There’s a date etched into the base at the inside.  It says 1890.”

Eve felt heat shoot up her spine and flush her cheeks.  “1890?”  She began to stutter.  “Well…obviously there’s some kind of…mistake.  I mean it couldn’t be 1890, could it?  This is 1885.  How could the etching say 1890?  You’re seeing it wrong.”