Throwback, p.14
Throwback, page 14
One by one, the people Leila really liked were disappearing. But why Auntie Flora? She stared again at the journal:
I thought I could tough it out. I never imagined I’d be writing this. But I feel the change coming on. I dread I will not be able to fend it off. Fenton, Roseanne, Cosmo—they were all stronger people than I, but look what happened to them. The change took them lock, stock, and barrel. I cannot let Lazslo see me. I must suffer the throes of TS on my own. I can feel it happening as I wr
That was it. Nothing more. On the next page, the slashed pages began.
Why?
Leila’s eyes scanned the page again. The change . . . the throes of TS . . . What change? What was TS? And who were those people—Fenton, Roseanne, Cosmo . . . ?
She began rifling back through the journal. Right away she knew it wasn’t an ordinary diary. Page after page was full of notes from her Knickerbockers meetings. Discussions about clothes to wear to visit the Great Depression. Excited passages about trips to “pre-Colonial New Amsterdam.” Musings about whether to try for a voyage on the Titanic.
I simply cannot keep myself from these trips. . . .
How much longer will Lazslo believe I am away on business. . . .
It pains me to have refrained from time travel these last four weeks. . . .
L. called the bureau in Mumbai and they told him I was at no such meeting. . . .
Dear, dear Cosmo deSmiglia has transspeciated. He fought the addiction. He hadn’t hopped in a year. I suppose he backslid. I am told that now he is some hideous species of peccary. Things are not going well. . . .
Leila closed the book, numb.
Transspeciated . . . TS. Had to be the same thing.
And that name . . . deSmiglia.
Yesterday, when Leila had chased after Corey in the park, she had seen something on the way. That strange massive mutant rat. It had scared her to death. But when she brought it up, Papou had answered her:
“Ah, you met Smig.”
Which sounded like deSmiglia.
Leila stared at the passage in the journal: I am told that now he is some hideous species of peccary. She quickly looked up the term “peccary” on her phone. In a second she was staring at the image of a hairy beast that resembled a warthog.
She placed the phone on her bed, her fingers shaking.
Smig had been “addicted.” And so had Auntie Flora. But not to any controlled substance.
To time travel.
From outside, Leila heard a plaintive scream, like a child in bitter pain. Thinking it was a neighbor, she ignored it. But the wail grew louder and louder. And it sounded spookily like her name.
“Laaaaaaay . . . laahhhh . . .”
She ran to her window, threw it open, and looked down.
A couple was walking down the street, pushing a stroller. A helmeted delivery guy was returning to his bike after dropping off a meal.
Leila almost missed seeing the lump of white, half-hidden by the plantings directly below. But as it slinked to the center of the sidewalk, Leila recognized it right away.
Catsquatch sat back on its haunches and raised its paw.
Leila could swear it was grinning.
26
Leila didn’t usually go into Central Park alone after dark. But by the time she got to the sidewalk, Catsquatch was across the street, waiting in the park entrance.
She hurried across Central Park West and followed the white fluff into the park. The cat beast strutted along the pathway toward the reservoir, drawing the attention of a pit bull on a tight leash. With a horrible snarl, the dog lunged toward the big cat, teeth bared.
“Is that thing yours?” bellowed the dog’s owner. He was a huge guy with tat-covered arms, but it took all his strength to restrain his pet. “Get it away!”
Before Leila could answer, Catsquatch turned to the pit bull and growled.
The dog jerked its head from side to side, foaming at the mouth. It sprang forward on its massive hind legs. The leash slipped out of the owner’s hand. “Masher, no!”
But Catsquatch faced the dog head-on. The hair rose along the monster cat’s spine. It sat back calmly on its haunches, then rose on its hind legs. Its eyes bugged, its fur spiked outward, and its claws sprang like knives. With a deep-throated hiss, it slashed the dog’s snout.
The dog jumped back, falling to the pavement. With a low, guttural growl, Catsquatch began moving toward Masher, lumbering on its hind legs like an angry bear.
Masher scrambled to his feet. Whimpering, he circled around behind his owner. The man stared in disbelief. “What the heck is that?”
“A do-o-o-og’s . . . wuhst . . . dweeeam,” whispered a scratchy voice.
Leila whirled around to see who had spoken. She saw another dog walker with a very scared-looking Chihuahua, a jogger, a kid on a skateboard, and a couple arm in arm. But they were nowhere near enough.
Masher was pulling his owner away, but the guy was smirking at Leila. “Yeah, right. Funny voice. Hey, you got lucky. I don’t know what spooked him. Must’ve been something he ate. Normally he destroys cats.”
“I—I didn’t say anything . . . ,” Leila said, as the guy and his dog vanished into the night.
Catsquatch was walking on all fours again, tail sashaying from side to side. As it pranced across the park’s main road, it gave Leila a beckoning look over its shoulder. Then it disappeared into a thicket of bushes.
It was hard to find areas of Central Park that were not illuminated by overhead streetlights. But Catsquatch had managed. Carefully Leila crossed the road, ducked under low-hanging tree branches, and stepped into a tiny clearing.
Snuggled against the base of a tree, Catsquatch let out a sound between a purr and a growl. “We-e-ell, that was amusing, dahling, wasn’t it?”
Leila screamed. She stumbled backward, twisting her ankle on an exposed root. Grimacing, she sank against the trunk of a maple tree as the big white cat began licking her ankle.
Only one person in the world called her dahling. “You—you’re Auntie F-F-F—”
“Thank you. Thank you so much for not calling me by that howwid other name,” the cat said. “An old gal still has a bit of pwide. You have no idea how lovely it is to speak English again. As you can see, I’m not vewy good yet. Especially the . . . lettah that comes between q and s.”
“R?” Leila said.
“Pwecisely. Honestly, I don’t know how Smig does it.”
Breathe . . . breathe . . .
This could not be happening. Leila felt the world swirling around her. She wanted desperately to be dreaming. She closed her eyes tight and opened them again. But the ankle still hurt, the tree was against her back, and her aunt was a white cat beast. Everything was solid and real. “So . . . your journal . . . ,” Leila said. “That stuff about t-t-trans . . . species . . .”
“Twansspeciating,” Auntie Flora said.
“That. It happened to you, didn’t it? From too much time travel—it adjusted your genes?”
Auntie Flora let out a satisfied purr. “Oh, mahvelous! You must have spoken to Gus. I was hoping he would explain the pwocess. I nevuh was able to let him know my . . . news. It was all so fast. Please tell him.”
“If you can talk, why didn’t you just tell me?” Leila asked. “I mean, all those times we saw you on the sidewalk . . . ?”
“Well, deawy, I couldn’t vewy well weveal myself to yo’ fwiends!” Auntie Flora snapped.
“But you—you . . . ,” Leila stammered.
Her aunt’s exclamation hung in the air. Whatever Leila was about to say was wiped out of her brain by an uncontrollable urge to laugh. All the pressure seemed to whoosh out of her like a burst balloon. She tried to choke it back but it came out in a big, loud guffaw.
“I know . . . I know . . . I sound widiculous . . . ,” Auntie Flora said.
Now Leila was collapsing to the ground, gasping. “Oh! Oh! Sorry . . . sorry . . . it’s just . . . you sound like yourself, but . . .”
“I look widiculous.”
“No! I didn’t mean that!”
Her aunt was turning away. “I will let you calm down.”
“No! Don’t go!” Leila leaned forward, scooping up the ungainly cat from the ground, hugging her. “I’m so sorry. It’s just that I feel like I’ve been turned upside down these last twenty-four hours. Like a big nightmare. I love you, Auntie Flora. It’s just . . . well, a lot for me to get used to.”
“How do you think I feel?” her aunt said.
Leila sighed. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t complain. You’re the one who’s suffering.”
Auntie Flora’s resistance was melting now. Her new body unstiffened. Leila sat there with her aunt, rocking her back and forth silently. Joggers thumped by them on the way to and from the reservoir. One or two gave them a startled glance, but Leila didn’t care. “Does Uncle Lazslo know what happened?”
“No,” Auntie Flora said. “I’m afwaid he wouldn’t unduhstand.”
“Corey’s grandfather went to Vancouver because he heard there was a cure,” Leila said. “Can I bring you to him? Maybe he can take you there, too.”
Auntie Flora turned her big face up to Leila. Her eyes were piercing and very human. “Oh, please do, dahling. A cure? Weally? I hope so.”
“Corey, too. He can do it, you know—time-hop.”
“I know,” Auntie Flora said. “I saw Smig. He was cagey but I got him to open up. I would love to see Cowwey. He won’t need a cure if he sees what it did to me. He’ll be wisah than I was.”
Leila exhaled. “Corey is gone, Auntie Flora. He went back to 2001 to try to save his grandmother.”
“Oh . . . ,” Auntie Flora said, shrinking back. “Oh, how foolish. Didn’t his gwandfatha tell him he can’t change the events of—”
“He can,” Leila interrupted. “He’s a Throwback.”
Her feline aunt leaped out of Leila’s arms. “Impossible.”
“No. It’s like one in a million, but not impossible. He’s done it already, Auntie Flora—changed something in the past.”
Auntie Flora began pacing back and forth. “Oh my . . .”
“I haven’t heard from him. His grandmother is not alive. I’m worried.”
“Of course you aw, dahling. Listen to me. Go back to my collection. I have a lacquew box that contains vewy impowtant things you’ll need.”
“The box! I’ve seen it! I thought the stuff inside was junk.”
“Not junk. Awtifacts I’ve used to twavel in time. Nine-eleven is a pwized time destination for time-hoppers. It’s kind of sick, I know. Evewyone seems to have an awtifact from 2001. Look for the small nail file in the lacquew box. It belonged to a Stuyvesant High School student who fled the attack.”
“Wait. You want me to bring you the nail file so you can time-hop?” Leila shook her head. “In your condition?”
“Not me,” Auntie Flora said. “You.”
“But—I can’t,” Leila protested. “I—I’m not—”
“I have nevuh known you to lack self-confidence, Leila.”
“I don’t! I mean, about schoolwork and stuff like that. But—”
“We are blood welatives,” Auntie Flora said. “This ability is passed down genetically. There is a chance you can do this. Not a huge chance, but there is one way to know. Pick up that nail file. If the file becomes hot to the touch, we have something.”
“It was hot!” Leila said, bolting to her feet.
“The file?” Auntie Flora said.
“The whole box.”
A cat’s face did not show the emotion that a human’s did, but Leila could swear Auntie Flora was smiling. “Take me to your woom,” she said. “Now.”
27
Quinn didn’t respond the first time his name was called.
Holding a clipboard, a sour-faced man with stringy hair stood in front of a rowdy group of young men. In answer to the ad for West Side cowboys, they had all come to the makeshift metal hut near the Hudson River.
“Ahem. I repeat—number seven—Roper! Quinn Roper!” The man’s nasal voice rang out.
Corey elbowed Quinn, who was slumped against the back of a stiff wooden chair, fast asleep. “That’s you,” Corey whispered.
“Wha— Huh—?” Quinn said.
“They called your name,” Corey said. “Your turn.”
They were both exhausted from the night at the Better Ridgefield Hotel. Corey didn’t know which was worse—the bug-infested horsehair mattress he’d slept on, or the metal chair from which Quinn had not moved all night. Now, at seven in the morning, they were jammed together with dozens of men in a tin hut. Although the entrance was open to the river, Corey couldn’t even feel a hint of a breeze.
Two rows in front of them, a smirking, skinny guy turned to his neighbor and said, “Watch this.” He popped up from his seat and began strutting toward the front. “Yup—I’m Roper! That’ll be me!”
Instantly awake, Quinn leaped to his feet. “No, you ain’t.”
He unhooked the rope from his shoulder. As he twirled it over his head, the man sitting next to him ducked away. Quinn sent the lasso flying over the heads of the other men. It fell around the skinny guy, pinning his arms to his sides. “What the devil?” he shouted.
“Follow me,” Quinn said to Corey. Stepping quickly into the aisle, he yanked on the rope. As the hapless impostor fell to the floor, a cheer went up from the room.
“Excuse me . . . excuse me . . . ,” Corey said, stepping over the other men as he tried to follow Quinn.
“Git along, li’l dogie!” Quinn shouted, dragging the startled man toward him up the aisle floor. Now everyone in the room was standing. The guy was kicking and screaming as Quinn yanked him to his feet. Pulling the guy’s face close, Quinn growled, “Don’t. You. Ever. Do. That. Again.”
With easy, quick moves, he untied the guy, coiled the rope back up around his shoulder, and strode to the front of the room. “Here I am, sir!”
The place exploded with laughter and whoops. Guys crowded the aisles to pat Quinn on the back. Chairs fell to the floor. In front, the guy with the clipboard began banging a hammer on a desktop. “Order! Order!”
Corey fought his way through the excited throng. As he and Quinn got to the front, the leader had to shout to be heard over the din. “Well, that sure was a humdinger.” He offered Quinn a bony hand. “Name’s Jensen.”
“Roper,” Quinn said. “This here’s my best friend, Fletch. We come as a pair.”
“A pair?” Corey said.
Quinn elbowed him in the side.
“I hire person by person,” Jensen said. “Not pair by pair.”
“We can split the fee,” Quinn said with a shrug. “Either that, or we both walk, and you lose the best, bravest, and most reliable men here.”
Jensen gave them each a long, appraising look. “Well, ya made me laugh. No one makes me laugh in the morning. Guess that oughtta be good for something. Follow me. But remember, if ya can’t ride, ya lose the job.”
Jensen led Quinn and Corey out the door. He walked with a noticeable limp, grabbing a cane that was propped by the entrance.
“What did you just do?” Corey whispered.
“Saved your butt,” Quinn said.
They walked along the river’s edge, heading south. As the din of the metal hut faded away, Corey could hear delighted screams coming from the water. Just ahead, a ladder led down to a small, lopsided dock that looked like it hadn’t been used by boats in years. There, a group of boys were skinny-dipping in the river, their clothes in piles on the dock. One of them spotted Corey and waved. “Water’s nice and cold!” he said. “Come on down!”
After the humid, showerless night at the Better Ridgefield Hotel, Corey was tempted. It sure would be a heck of a lot more fun than trying to ride a horse. “Later!” he called down.
Quinn and Jensen were heading away from the river, up a small hill toward the freight rail. Corey ran to catch up. Near the tracks was a small horse pen and stable. Behind that was a ten-story factory building. In present times, Corey thought, the factory would be barely noticeable. Here, it overwhelmed the landscape.
“The rail’s pretty quiet at this hour,” Jensen said. “But soon the train cars’ll be chugging along. They run uptown, picking up meat from the shops on Gansevoort, then all kinds of goods from the shipyards in midtown. Then up the West Side to the Bronx, Yonkers, and Westchester. Goes on all day and through the night, every day. But this area here—this is where we have the safety problems. You’d think people would be smart enough to stay off the tracks, hah! Some of the drunks, they see track bed and they want to put a pillow in it and snooze!”
He thought his joke was so funny, he started wheezing with laughter. “Ya get that? Track bed . . . pillow? Hee! Anyways, someday they’re gonna build an elevated track, if they can work out the politics. So for the time being, we need guys like you. Your job is to ride the horses in front of the trains and clear the tracks. Go too fast, and something could slip onto the tracks behind you. Go too slow, that train sneaks up faster’n you think, and your horse gets killed. Or you. Okay, wait here. I’ll choose suitable steeds, one for each of you.”
“No need to choose.” As Quinn eyed the horses, he put his hand gently on the guy’s shoulder. “I’ll take the roan. Corey will like the chestnut.”
Jensen gave him a curious but strangely impressed look. “Oh? The chestnut is new. He’s still a little meek.”
“We’ll take him anyway.” Quinn shrugged. “Hey, just saving you the headache of picking the right ones.”
“All righty—Thunder and Paisley it’ll be, then,” Jensen replied, turning toward the pen.
Corey gave Quinn a look. “I hope Thunder’s for you,” he said.
“Yup.” Quinn smiled. “Paisley will be as obedient as a mouse. Trust me. I know how to pick ’em.”
Corey didn’t trust horses. He was afraid Paisley would wander to the dock, dive in, and swim to New Jersey. That would be just his luck.
But Quinn had been right about this one. Paisley was easy to ride and agreeable.
Their test: trot down a siding, and make sure to clear it as efficiently as possible. Corey quickly learned that a “siding” meant a section of track that went nowhere—it led off to the side, kind of a parking area for trains. Jensen and his men had booby-trapped the rails with life-size dummies, branches, tree trunks, a car tire or two, and a baby carriage. Quinn was a natural, positioning himself just right and using a lasso. He was the one clearing almost all the debris. By the end of the test period, a crowd of bystanders from the neighborhood had gathered to watch.
