“Yes. From the encyclopedia.”
“That’s right. You said to come back if we had questions?”
“I said to come back? Or I said to call?”
“To call. I’m sorry. But the questions we have are of the face-to-face variety. I promise we will not take more than fifteen minutes of your time. May we please come in and ask them?”
Joan shifted her tall figure to block the doorway. “No. Sorry. The place is a mess.”
“Then may we ask them right here? Again, I am terribly sorry for the imposition, but we’re facing a deadline.”
Joan shrugged. “So, what else can I tell you?”
Margaret did not expect me to speak up, but I had to. “Please, ma’am, we need to know about Daisy Traynor’s secret papers. The ones that deal with General Lowery and the German attaché.”
Joan’s face hardened. “I told you, there are no such papers.”
She started to back away, but I stopped her. “Ms. Traynor-Kurtz, I have to talk to you, in private.” I turned to Margaret. “You’ll have to wait by the curb. What I have to say is for her alone.”
Margaret gulped. She whispered, “Okay,” and drifted back toward the car.
I waited until Margaret was out of earshot; then I turned to Joan. I extended my hand, as she had done at Seraphim, and fluttered it in the space between us. “Ms. Traynor-Kurtz, you asked me before if I had ever felt a presence. I said no. I acted like I didn’t know what you were talking about. But I was lying.”
Joan watched my hand until it stopped. When she looked up, I locked eyes with her. “I have recently been contacted by a spirit. He may have been an angel from heaven, or a soul from purgatory, I don’t know. But he was real enough to me, and his message was real. Do you believe that things like that happen?”
She answered simply, “Yes, I do.”
“I know that you are a spiritual person. And that’s why I have to share part of the message with you. I have not shared it with my sister, or with anyone at the encyclopedia, or with anyone, period.”
Joan shifted from foot to foot. She couldn’t leave now if she tried. I told her, in measured words, “Daisy Traynor did keep copies of the correspondence between General Lowery and the German attaché, Von Dirksen. She wrote the copies out in her own hand, on scented paper. She tied them up with pink ribbon and stored them under her bed in a red hatbox. She referred to one man as ‘mein Herr.’ She referred to another as ‘MM,’ or ‘Mickey Mouse.’ ”
Joan’s mouth literally dropped open. “How . . . Where did you hear all that?”
“I received a message, and I am passing it along to you. I don’t know anything beyond that.”
Joan’s eyes began to flutter wildly.
I asked her simply, “Is it the truth?”
She whispered softly, “Yes.”
“Then maybe it’s time for the truth to come out.”
Joan’s head dropped down to her chest, like she had passed out. She seemed to look inside herself. Then she looked back up. “You wait here.”
I stole a glance at Margaret. She raised her hands in a “What’s going on?” gesture. Before I could reply, Joan returned.
She had a red hatbox in her hands.
She spoke very deliberately. “I am going to trust you, young man, because you invoked the spirit world. And because I believe this is the right thing to do. If this is some trick, for some cheap tabloid story, then your soul is in for a lot of torment, and I wouldn’t want to be you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I assured her. “I understand.”
Joan regarded me fiercely. She finally said, “I’ll want these back when you’re finished. However long that takes.”
“All right.” I took the hatbox in my two hands. It felt solid and round, and it still emitted a light, delicate scent. Joan closed the door without another word. I turned and carried the hatbox back toward Margaret reverently, like a chalice. She jumped into the car and opened the door for me. We shot down the steep road and then pulled over. Margaret demanded to know, “What is that?”
“It’s a box full of Daisy Traynor’s secret papers from London. Copies of messages that she was sent to deliver.”
She snapped, “Pass it over here!” Margaret removed the round red top, set it on the backseat, and started to finger, very carefully, through the papers within. As I watched and listened, Margaret came as close to cursing as I had ever heard. She kept muttering “Holy crap!” over and over, in ever-rising excitement.
After a while, I started picking up the papers, too, and reading the curly, feminine handwriting. They weren’t really memos, they were more like notes about memos—full of names, and dates, and places.
We must have sat there for twenty minutes. Margaret finally reached back for the lid, covered the letters, and handed the box to me. “Here. You hold this. You’re the one who discovered it.”
Margaret threw the car in gear. Soon we were on the wooden bridge over the Delaware, bouncing across to New Jersey. I felt giddy with excitement. “How big a deal is this?”
“This? This is as big as King Tut.”
“No!”
“Yes. This is primary source material, Martin. Verifiable. Cross-checkable. Incredible. I see why the Lowery family has worked so hard to deny its existence, and to discredit Daisy.” Margaret actually took her hands off the wheel and threw them up before regaining control. “Good God! Daisy Traynor has reached out from the grave! And you, Martin, are her instrument.”
“Instrument? For what?”
“For revenge on Lowery. To bring him down.”
I thought of Daisy’s last, angry words to Lowery during the air raid. I said, “Yeah. Well, maybe he was just using her, you know? And then he abandoned her.”
Margaret actually cackled. “Well, no woman scorned has ever taken sweeter revenge.”
“What will this do to Lowery’s reputation?”
“It will destroy it.”
“Really? I don’t understand. What did he do that was so bad?”
“According to those papers, he carried a highly detailed plan from the German attaché, Von Dirksen, to President Roosevelt. The plan outlined how the United States could, essentially, stab Britain in the back and make a deal with Hitler. Fortunately, FDR rejected it.”
“So Lowery was a traitor?”
Margaret thought about that. When she finally answered, she was more subdued. “No. I wouldn’t say that. He was an isolationist. He wanted to keep the United States out of the war. A lot of people did.”
“The isolationists were antiwar?”
“They were.”
“Was that a bad thing?”
“I guess it depends on your point of view. From our point of view, we can say that it was absolutely essential to stop Hitler. But people back then still thought they could make a deal with him.”
“So? That’s all that Lowery was doing. Trying to make a deal. Why will that be so damaging?”
“Because he lied about it! He lied about it back when it happened, and he continued to lie about it for the rest of his life. He claimed that he was always solidly behind the brave Londoners and that he suffered through the Blitz with them when the truth was, he got out of there as soon as he could and he tried to sell them out to Hitler.”
Margaret’s hands flew off the wheel again. “Martin, what on earth did you say to that woman?”
“I appealed to her spiritual side.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Nana and I have a spiritual side, you know.”
“I know.” Margaret sounded a little envious.
“Oh yes, and I told her the truth.”
“That’s always good.”
“She said she wants the papers back.”
“Sure. They’re her property. It may be a while, though. My God! Mr. Wissler is going to die when he sees those papers.”
“How are you going to give them to him?”
“I’m going to let you do it. You can tell him
. . . the truth.” She stole a worried glance at me. “Don’t be offended by this, but I don’t think you should bring up the time-travel stuff again. Okay?”
I wasn’t offended, but I told her, “I’m going to tell him the truth.”
Thirty minutes later, we used Margaret’s ID to enter the offices of the Millennium Encyclopedia. While she waited by the front, I walked back to a large office, where I could see Mr. Wissler working at a desk. I rapped lightly on the door. He looked up and smiled.
“Hello, Martin. What can I do for you?”
I held out the red hatbox. “Here. I got this from . . . the relative of an eyewitness to history. The eyewitness’s name was Daisy Traynor. Reading it is a kind of time travel.”
He was definitely intrigued. “Time travel? To when?”
“To our favorite time.” I held the box out.
He took it in his two hands. “It certainly smells nice.”
“Yes. I’ll leave you with it now. I think you’ll know what to do with it.”
I backed out as he continued to stare at the hatbox. He was so fascinated that he didn’t even say goodbye.
Mom, Margaret, and I had a pleasant dinner back at home. Then we went to the Acme to pick up snacks for some New Year’s Eve TV-watching. I also spotted an item that I had to buy—a tube of Brylcreem in the “original scent,” the kind popular with the RAF pilots and the little boys who idolized them.
We ate our snacks, watched the revelers in Times Square, and wished each other a happy New Year at twelve o’clock. Then, sometime after one, I noticed that I had received an e-mail from over three thousand miles away. It said:
Dear Mr. Conway—I am a York Minster volunteer. I am authorized to confirm for you that a James Harker does work part-time at the Minster. I must leave it to you and Mr. Harker to work out whether he would like to participate in your research project. Good luck to you.
Sincerely, Helen Mills
NEW YEAR’S DAY
New Year’s Day is also a holy day of obligation in the Catholic Church, commemorating the circumcision of the infant Jesus. All Souls Chapel was having a special holy day mass prior to the dedication of the Heroes’ Walk, but I asked Mom to take us to Resurrection in Princeton instead. She readily agreed, adding, “At Resurrection, we won’t have to listen to that Lowery boy snoring.”
I spent my time at mass thinking about Hank Lowery anyway. It had been nearly seven months since he had slapped me in the face. Today was the day he was going to pay for that.
I did not realize it at the time, but Mom and Margaret each had a personal agenda for the day, too. After mass, we drove east through the gray snow of the farmland along East Windsor Road. As we drew closer to All Souls Preparatory, we each grew more somber, and focused, and determined.
When Mom pulled in to the All Souls campus, I noticed a long flatbed truck parked just outside the gate. It was a familiar sight to me, but I was surprised to see it today. It had MANETTI CONSTRUCTION written on the cab door. Atop the open bed sat a small bulldozer, a yellow John Deere 350C.
A crowd was gathered at the entranceway to the Lowery Library. I saw a row of bleachers, twenty feet across and five rows high, facing a podium. A new marble statue stood next to the podium. It depicted General Henry M. “Hollerin’ Hank” Lowery standing with his right arm raised, pointing his men forward into battle. His mouth was open, presumably in mid-holler. The statues of FDR and JFK were set in a small arc beside him. Embedded in gold in the gray slate of the entranceway were the words the heroes’ walk.
We parked down by the Student Center and walked back. I spotted Hank Lowery right away, but he didn’t see me. He was standing with Ben Livingstone and Ben’s father, the Lowery family’s attorney. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead, following Mom and Margaret into the Administration Building. A small group was inside, including Father Thomas and Father Leonard.
Father Leonard approached us and said, “Congratulations, Martin, on those fine research papers. I haven’t read papers that good since Margaret was my student.”
I said, “Thank you.”
Margaret smiled cryptically.
Father Thomas came over as soon as he saw Mom. “Thank goodness you’re here, Mary. I’ve been priest, principal, and master of ceremonies, all mixed together.”
Mom didn’t reply. She opened the top desk drawer, removed some items, and put them in her purse.
Father Thomas looked at Margaret and me. “Good to see you again, Margaret. I know Mr. Livingstone wants to talk to you again about your work at the encyclopedia.”
Margaret’s smile receded. “I’ll bet he does.”
“And you, too, Martin. How have you been?”
“Very well, Father. Never better.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Father Leonard has been very impressed by your reports. I have read some of them, too. Excellent.”
Father Leonard added, “Superior research skills, Martin.”
“Thank you. I’ve enjoyed doing the reports. In fact, I’m working on another one now.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“It’s called ‘Their Finest Hour.’ It’s about survivors of the London Blitz.”
Father Leonard looked intrigued. But before he could ask me about it, Hank Lowery’s mother tapped him on the shoulder. He turned away, and he never did turn back.
Father Thomas answered for him. “That is interesting. I’ll look forward to reading it.”
I shook my head. “You won’t be reading it.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Because I won’t be turning it in.” Father Thomas was clearly confused. I added, “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for me. And for . . . someone else.”
He shook his head and muttered, “I’m afraid I don’t follow you. Perhaps we could talk about it later.”
“There is no later. I won’t be coming back here.”
Father Thomas looked to Mom for support, but he heard instead “Actually, Father, I won’t be coming back, either.”
His eyes widened. After a stunned pause, he finally managed to say, “I’m sorry to hear that, too, Mary. Very sorry. When will you be leaving us?”
“Right now. Effective immediately.”
Father Thomas’s eyes shot to the pile of papers on his desk. “Immediately?” His voice sharpened. “But two weeks’ notice is customary. In writing.”
“Sometimes it is. But as I recall, Martin gave you a statement in writing and you didn’t think it was worth reading. Or even opening.”
“Mary, I explained that—”
“Yes, you explained to me that a verbal statement alone was enough. So this is yours.” She hesitated, then added, “Now you can hire another servant to work for minimum wage.”
Father Thomas protested, “That’s not fair. You received a wage plus benefits. And tuition at All Souls.”
Mom agreed. “Yes, that’s right. That was the deal. Now we no longer need the deal. So goodbye.”
Before Father Thomas could manage further reply, his brother called out, “It’s time to go, everybody!”
Father Leonard took Father Thomas by the arm and guided him to the head of a loose line composed of well-dressed men and women. I recognized some of them from masses at the Chapel—the extended Lowery family. The men had all inherited the large head and broad shoulders. A couple of the women had, too.
Father Thomas led the group past the large painting of Washington crossing the Delaware and into the bright winter light. Mom, Margaret, and I followed at a distance. We heard a smattering of applause to our right as the other invited guests caught sight of the Lowerys. The family members took seats in the first row of the bleachers. Mom and Margaret climbed up to the top row on the left side. But I found my own spot, on the right edge, two rows behind Hank Lowery IV.
Father Thomas began by formally greeting the members of the Lowery family, naming them one by one. He even named their family lawyer and some other important alumni. Then, backed by the life-size statue o
f the General on its three-foot-high pedestal, he launched into a speech: “The statue that we dedicate today is symbolic—symbolic of history, of heroism, and of honor. We all know the story depicted by this statue. Colonel Henry M. Lowery—while commanding troops in France in World War I; while under withering fire from German machine-gun positions; while losing over half the men in his company—still managed to destroy those positions and win the day, earning himself a field promotion to General. In the process, he also earned the applause of a grateful nation. He continued to serve his country and his community throughout his life. And even in death, he has given most generously to his school, All Souls Preparatory, in the form of this magnificent library.”
I watched two rows ahead of me as Hank Lowery IV turned to his mother and announced, “I gotta take a whiz.”
She hissed, “Can’t this wait?”
“No. I gotta go bad.”
The woman moved enough to let him slip by. As he hopped off the bleachers, I knew my own moment had come. I jumped down after him. I stayed ten yards behind until he reached the Administration Building; then I moved quickly to catch the door before it closed.
Lowery turned, startled to see me. But his look of apprehension quickly turned into a familiar snarl. “You, Conway? What do you want?”
I closed the door and walked toward him, like James Harker toward that warden sixty years earlier and three thousand miles away. As I walked, I made a speech of my own. I said, “This is for all the boys Hollerin’ Hank led to their deaths so that he could become a big general, and be in all the newspapers, and endorse hearing aids, and build that library.” Then I added, “And this is for me, too.”
I pulled my fist back and threw one quick punch at Hank Lowery’s nose. The punch wasn’t that hard, but it struck him dead center, and it caught him completely by surprise. His big head snapped back. Then his whole body followed it, backpedaling wildly down the hallway. I went after him, ready to punch him again if necessary, but it wasn’t.
Lowery’s left leg hit one of the plastic chairs, throwing him off balance. He waved his arms, fell down, and immediately started grabbing at his ankle like he was in excruciating pain. I didn’t believe he was in pain—either from the punch or the fall—but he screamed bloody murder.