Margaret turned the page to a formal portrait of Daisy and commented, “She was a beautiful woman.”
I looked at the picture and nearly gasped. There was Daisy Traynor, just as I had seen her, ready for a night out on the town. I muttered, “Yeah. She was really beautiful.”
Joan smiled. “That she was. She knew it, too. But don’t get me started on that.”
Margaret turned the page again, and Joan pointed out, “There’s Joseph Kennedy, with his sons Joe and Jack, and his daughter Kick.”
Margaret turned many pages, and she and Joan made comments about many people, but one remained missing. There was no photo of Mickey Mouse—Martin Mehan.
“What did your aunt do after the war?” Margaret asked.
Joan answered proudly, “Daisy remained a strong and independent woman. She moved back to New York City and worked at Time-Life. She loved the city.”
As soon as Margaret reached the last page, I wondered out loud, “Is it possible that Daisy wrote memoirs, like Grandfather Mehan’s?”
Margaret picked up on that thought. “Oh yes! A lot of people who lived through historic times, people like your aunt, published their memoirs, even if it was just for the family. Did Daisy ever do that?”
“No. No memoirs. She was a terrific letter writer—” Joan seemed to catch herself. She completed the thought hurriedly. “But none of those got saved.”
“What about diaries?”
“No. Not that I’ve ever seen. Or heard about.”
Margaret pressed her. “Is it possible that someone else in the family received memoirs or a diary or letters?”
Joan looked out toward the store. Then she looked back and told us, in a voice that was suddenly weary, “All right. If you dig a little further, you’ll find this out, so I’ll just tell you. There was a minor scandal late in her life. She needed money, I guess. She tried to sell love letters to a tabloid magazine called The Recorder.”
“I see. Love letters from whom?”
Joan pointed at the photo album. “That general in there. Lowery. He wrote her some letters—some pretty hot ones, apparently—while they were both serving in England. The Lowery family got wind of it and sued the tabloid to stop publication. My understanding is that they got possession of the letters and burned them.”
I asked, “Were there any other things, like official memos or telegrams or dispatches?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Nothing in German, or from a German guy?”
“Nothing.”
Margaret waited to see if I was through. Then she dug out a card. “Okay. Thanks so much. Here’s my number, in case you think of anything else.”
Joan took the card and then fished around for one of her own. “Here. In case you have any questions about Daisy, you can call me at home. I do want to keep the facts straight about her. She deserves that.”
Margaret held up the book reverently. “Might we possibly take this with us and study it at the encyclopedia’s offices? I promise you we will return it unharmed.”
Joan shook her head. “Sorry. No. Those photos are priceless to me, as you can imagine.”
“Of course. Well, can we possibly copy some?”
Joan thought for a moment. Then she pointed to her computer, nearly covered by a white, detached angel’s wing. “Okay. If you want, you can scan them here and e-mail them to your office.”
“Excellent. That’d be excellent. Thank you so much.”
Margaret walked quickly over to the scanner, leaving me with Joan. After an awkward pause, I made the hopelessly stupid observation “So, you’re interested in angels?”
Joan rolled her eyes, but she answered with patience. “That’s what this store is all about. That’s what I’m all about. Do you know anything about angels?”
“Me? No. Not really.”
“Well, do you believe in them, at least?”
I glanced over at Margaret, wishing she would hurry. I answered, “I’m not sure.”
Joan fluttered her hand in the small space between us. “Have you ever felt a presence, a benevolent presence, right next to you? Like this?”
A shiver went up my spine. I mumbled, “No. Never.”
Just then, Margaret turned toward us and announced, “Okay. That’s it. I just sent about a dozen photos to the Millennium Encyclopedia offices.” She handed the photo album back. “Thank you, Joan. Thank you so much.”
“You’re very welcome.” Joan led us to the front, where she stashed the album under the counter. We waved a final goodbye to her and exited past the bright displays of angel cards, crystals, and candles.
We located our car and were soon driving back, retracing General George Washington’s path toward Trenton. Margaret looked at me and did a double take. “Martin! You’re actually smiling. From ear to ear.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.”
Margaret poked at me playfully. “Come on, tell me. Why are you so happy?”
I looked at the river passing by. I thought about the photos of Daisy Traynor, young and alive, and I smiled even wider. “Well, everything was crumbling, and I had to do something, and I did it. With your help, of course. I did it.”
“Did what?”
“I just crossed the Delaware.”
After a pause, Margaret admitted, “I don’t get it.”
“Let’s just say, after many defeats, I’ve just known victory.”
And we left it at that.
When we got back home, I went down to the basement and checked for messages. There was an urgent one from Pinak that just said, “Read this, Martin! Right away!” I clicked on it, and saw:
PINAKC: Martin, I was troubled by your complete assurance about that Arsenal Football Club location. You’re never completely sure about anything. So I checked further. The team has a website and a team historian. I wrote to the team historian three days ago, and I heard back tonight. I have attached his message.
I clicked on the attachment:
Sir—Your question addresses an unusual time in Arsenal’s history. While Arsenal did indeed call Highbury its home throughout the 20th century, the club was forced to move home fields during World War II. Highbury was taken over and used as a First Aid Post and an Air Raid Precautions Centre. Arsenal matches in 1940 took place at White Hart Lane in Tottenham, where the club shared the field with its arch-rivals, the Spurs.
I thrust my fist up in the air. Then I pulled my list out of the drawer. I quickly changed the status of Daisy Traynor and White Hart Lane. I pounded my fist on the desk. Then I typed in furiously:
JMARTINC: Thanks, Pinak! You bloody spiv.
I was startled when he wrote right back.
PINAKC: What is a bloody spiv? And why am I one?
JMARTINC: I don’t even know. I’m sure you’re not one. Thanks for the information, Pinak. Thanks for everything!
PINAKC: Martin, tell me, how could you possibly have known about Arsenal, and World War II, and White Hart Lane?
JMARTINC: I know because I was there.
PINAKC: No. You weren’t.
JMARTINC: Okay, then because I know someone who was there.
PINAKC: No. You don’t.
JMARTINC: Then it’s a logical paradox. But it’s still true.
I logged off and tallied up the list. James Harker, Bill Lane, and Alice Lane were no longer Maybes to me, they were Rights. So the score for Jimmy Harker was now ten Rights, no Wrongs, and no Maybes. It was a clean sweep. What more proof did I need?
I hopped to my feet and paced back and forth. I absolutely could not keep still. I burst into my bedroom, walked up to the dresser mirror, and looked hard into my own eyes. I asked myself aloud, “Will you help? Will you do your bit?” And I answered myself, slowly and solemnly, “Yes. Yes, I will.”
I had a destiny, all right. But it sure wasn’t to go back to All Souls Prep. It was to go back to London.
I walked out of my room and into the dark, damp storage are
a. I resurrected the Philco from its box, pulling it up slowly, like raising Lazarus from the dead. I returned to my room and carefully replaced the glass tubes—the three 24s, the 27, the two 71As, and the 80.
I placed the radio back on its nightstand, plugged it in, and lay down to face its orange glow and its distant crackling.
LONDON: DECEMBER 29, 1940
I went to bed each night with the possibility that I would travel through time, but I had to wait until Sunday for it to happen.
I had spent the week in a state of rising anticipation. I don’t know when I have ever felt more alive. I actually caught myself singing on the way up to breakfast one morning. I started working out every day, too—push-ups, sit-ups, jumping jacks—the entire Garden State Elementary School PE routine. And I did them over and over. I took to running to the Acme and back; I even took to running through the hilly streets behind our house for no reason at all. My energy, so long dormant, was now coursing through my veins.
I stopped napping entirely, preferring to go to bed as exhausted as possible and to fall asleep as quickly and as deeply as possible. I was physically tired but mentally alert when I finally lay down on Sunday night.
Ironically, for the first time in months I could not sleep. Eventually I got up and walked to the computer room. I looked up cures for insomnia and learned that fresh, cold air could induce sleep. I pulled on a coat and slipped upstairs, quietly opening the kitchen door and stepping out into a freezing, starlit night.
I filled my lungs with cold air for a long time, breathing in and out, storing up oxygen for what I suspected might be a dangerous ordeal ahead. When I finally returned to my room and assumed my sleeping position with my face toward the radio dial, I didn’t have long to wait.
I found myself transported almost immediately to that place of musty scents and gloomy darkness. I looked around the familiar room and saw Jimmy Harker in his wing chair, seated next to the radio and staring right at me.
He sounded relieved. “I was afraid I’d never see you again, Johnny.”
He reached over and turned the dial until he found a bouncy tune. Then he broke into a delighted smile. “Here it is! I knew I’d find it. Listen, Johnny. It’s ‘Mr. Franklin D. Roosevelt Jones.’ ”
I listened to the words and smiled along with him.
He added, “That FDR. He’s all right, ain’t he?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Gonna sell us the arms we need to fight Hitler. Gonna tell us about it tonight.”
We listened to the song all the way through. Jimmy stood behind the radio, singing along, running his fingers across the smooth, curved surface of the Philco 20 Deluxe.
When it was over, I asked him, “Do you know what they call this kind of radio? The kind with a curved top?”
“What?”
“A cathedral radio.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
I shrugged. “Because it looks like a cathedral?”
“It don’t look nothin’ like the York Minster. Maybe a little like St. Paul’s.” Jimmy looked up at me with his eyes ablaze. “The BBC said that St. Paul’s caught a pocket earlier. Gerry blasted everything around it, but the great cathedral still stands. Imagine that, Johnny. Hitler hurls his bombs at it and God just swats them away.”
He walked over to the sideboard and looked at his grandfather’s medals. “Gerry’s in for it now. We’ll have the guns to beat him, with or without you Yanks.”
I was puzzled. “Without the Yanks?”
“Yeah. Everybody knows how it is: Old FDR wants to fight, but Joe Kennedy don’t. That’s because them Kennedys is all playboys. They just want to have it off with all the movie stars, don’t they?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“They say there’s two yellow races now—the Japs and the Americans.”
I thought of Margaret’s words—that Joe Kennedy lost one son and nearly lost a second in the war. I thought of my grandfather Conway, too. I told Jimmy, “The Americans aren’t afraid to fight.”
“No? Then where are they?”
“In America. Where do you think?”
“Lotta good they’re doing there.”
I had heard enough. “What are you talking about? It was American men, and American weapons, that won the war.”
Jimmy looked at me, puzzled. “American?”
Suddenly I realized that Jimmy had no idea how this war would spread, or how it would end. He had no knowledge beyond 1940. Perhaps he had no knowledge beyond this night. I conceded, “Okay. You’re doing a brave thing, standing up to Hitler like this. The whole world knows that.”
“That’s right.”
I wandered over to the radio and looked at it closely. It was my Philco 20 Deluxe, definitely, but it looked newer and shinier. “This is a real beauty.”
“I’ll say. Best on the block.”
“Where did you get it?”
“My dad brought it home.”
“I have one just like it. My nana gave it to me. Look at the wood on the front. It’s like three different kinds of wood. And look at the back here. Mine had a nameplate that said ‘Martin Mehan.’ On this one, there’s two little screw holes but no plate.”
I watched Jimmy as he squeezed out a dab of Brylcreem, combed it through his hair, and lay the tube down on the table. Then he smiled, like he knew the jig was up. “You’re right, Johnny. Of course you’re right. I know it’s not our radio. Not really. I expect that Bill Lane pinched it.”
“Bill Lane?”
“Yeah. He gave it to my dad so we’d have a good radio for the war news, and the football matches, and the music. My dad said he thought Bill pinched it from the Embassy’s storeroom.”
“But . . . how could he do that?”
“He goes in there whenever he wants. So does my dad. They’re firefighters, mate. They gotta check on things.” Jimmy stopped and looked up, as if listening for a sound outside. “Don’t worry. My dad’s gonna return it tomorrow. They’ve got year-end inventory comin’ up.”
I walked around, behind the radio, and looked inside. I saw the number from the Embassy’s storeroom, but that was all. Something was missing.
Jimmy came up beside me. “You hear that sound outside?”
I listened, and I did hear some voices and some car horns.
“People are celebrating. It’s a night to remember, Johnny. And here’s what I’m doing to remember it.” He bent over in front of me and wrote, with a black fountain pen: “291240.”
I sputtered, “What? It was you who wrote that?”
“Yeah.”
“What does it mean?”
“Mean? It’s the date, isn’t it?”
“No. It isn’t.”
“Twenty-nine December, 1940: 29.12.40.”
“No. That would be 12-29-40.”
“Hardly, mate.”
“That’s how we write December twenty-ninth: 12-29.”
“Then you write it wrong, don’t you?”
The mood changed right after that. Jimmy stared, fixated, into the back of the radio for a long time. His good spirits faded away completely, and a great burden seemed to descend on him.
When he spoke again, it was dreamily, like he was remembering a scene from long ago. “I shouldn’t have wrote the date in there. But it was a great night, wasn’t it? And I wanted to celebrate. People were celebrating all around. I heard car horns beeping outside, and . . .”
Jimmy sighed. Then he dropped the black pen to the floor. I watched it roll until it stopped next to his gas mask. He said softly, “So let’s get started then, Johnny.”
I didn’t like his actions, or the tone of his voice. “Started where?”
“Where I have to go. And you have to follow.”
Jimmy turned toward the door. I pressed my hands to my temples, trying to think fast. “Wait, Jimmy! Listen: 29.12.40. December twenty-ninth, 1940. I know what happens.”
“I’m not so sure you do.”
“We . . . we can’t go
outside. We have to find shelter.”
Jimmy told me calmly, “We will, mate. You’ll see.” He opened the door and we stared out at the black emptiness, like looking into a grave. Jimmy turned. “What’s the matter? Are you still afraid of the dark?”
I was. I was terrified. But I followed him out. As I waited, trying to get my eyes to adjust to the blackout, a lone man brushed past us. He stopped and exchanged polite greetings with Jimmy. Both of them muttered, “Goodbye and good luck.”
Jimmy told me, “Watch your step. There’s a big bomb crater to your right. I expect there’s still a bit of shrapnel in the road, too.”
I followed Jimmy across the street. Another person passed and exchanged the same greeting. Jimmy explained, “That’s what we say instead of ‘Merry Christmas’ this year, Johnny. We say ‘Goodbye and good luck.’ ”
The next thing he said made me freeze with fear. “Listen to that, now. Here comes Gerry.”
The first sound I heard was the air-raid sirens as they cranked up.
Then I heard the droning of engines high above. German bombers. Hundreds of them. The incendiaries hit us just seconds later, bursting into flame, marking the way for the high explosives to follow.
I saw the outline of the surface shelter ahead. Two people, the old woman and the boy, were standing by the doorway. Jimmy walked up to them at the entrance. “This is it, then, Gran?” As before, the woman and the boy didn’t reply, except by turning and walking inside.
I ran up and tried to go inside, too, but Jimmy blocked my way. “You can’t go in there.”
“What? Why?”
Jimmy pointed to a spot on the sidewalk. “You’re to wait over there and watch.”
“Are you crazy? You have to let me in. I’ll get killed out here!”
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Johnny! You can’t get killed. You never could. This isn’t your time.”
I stared into his eyes. In the dark, I couldn’t tell if Jimmy was sweating or crying, but his face was wet. His voice softened. “I shouldn’t have gone out tonight, Johnny. I was wrong to. I should have stayed home, like Dad said.”