Nightwatch: The Kindness of Strangers
By Jeff Williams
Nightwatch created by Jeff
Williams
Developed by Jeff Williams and Robert
Moriyama
In a minute there is time
For decisions and
revisions which a minute will reverse.
T.
S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”
Part Two
“I’m lookin’ ou-ute at you today,
brothers and sisters, all races, po-or and eye
through the needle rich, and I see good people.” He stood atop a park bench, his breath
flooding out in white clouds as he spoke.
He wore a white, short sleeve formal shirt, and his brown pants were
held up by a pair of brown suspenders.
He raised his left hand to his dark red tie, which he had tied too
short, the point of it stopping just above his ample belly. His right hand
lifted a handkerchief to mop sweat off of his forehead, in the process pulling
his thin comb-over into damp curling strings.
A group of about
twenty people, all of whom were dressed in thick winter clothing, stood in this
corner of
“Yeah, I see good
people,” he spoke, and as he did, his expression curled into one of patrician
kindness. “Good Christian people.” His warm smile grew wider. “Precious lambs of Gohd. How many of you good souls voted fo’ Brother Roo-z-velt
in nineteen-hundred and thirty-two?”
Several in the crowd raised their hands, and he warmly acknowledged them
all. Nodding his head and closing his eyes, his lifted his chin so that the
layer of fat beneath it almost smoothed away.
“You was hoodwinked,” he said quietly and
matter-of-factly, and a little murmur of surprise went through the
onlookers. Two or three others joined,
drawn by the people already standing there.
Simon Litchfield
watched this from a discrete distance, from within a little grove of
winter-dormant trees. If the speaker,
Pastor Al Harrigan, had really wanted to find Simon,
he could have spotted him, but it would have taken a little effort, and all of
the pastor’s efforts were being focused on his sermon and upon his impromptu
congregation.
“Yes, children of Gohd, you was hoodwinked, it’s true.” He opened his eyes, lowered his head, and
glared intently at the crowd. “Understan’, no one is here to blame you. No one is here to po-oint
the finga.
You, you had good cause to be led astray. We were in a time of great trib’lation and sorrow, a time of want, a time of
despair. We wondered abou-ute
our nation, our future, our…our little ones, staring wide-eyed and hungry and wondrin’ why…why there was no food upon the table.”
Remembering Harrigan’s name from history, a history that had now
changed, hadn’t been easy for Simon. The
story of the assassination of John Nance Garner had been little more than an
anecdote in lectures on Roosevelt and the New Deal, and Simon had been at a
greater disadvantage having spent the first twelve years of his life in
England. Even as Nightwatch’s
primary civil engineer and (now) chief time troubleshooter had continued his
rounds of the District of Columbia in December 1939, he’d continually wracked
his brain trying to remember.
Suffolk,
Virginia, he’d thought,
church man from Suffolk. “blah blah blah
from
It didn’t take long
for the project manager, a Mr. Arlen Jeffries, to figure out that Simon knew
what he was talking about. By lunch,
Simon had walked the entire site and documented fifteen instances of practices
and techniques that were blatantly unwise or unsafe (even by 1939
standards). At 5PM when the site shut
down, Jeffries paid Simon under the table and then took him for a drink at a
bar on the other side of town.
“Sorry to rush you
out of there like that,” Jeffries had explained. "You're none too popular with Whitey and
his boys, and, frankly, I'm a little concerned for your well-being." After their drink, they had walked out only
to find a street preacher yelling at them, swearing, saying that unless they
gave up demon rum, they were doomed.
Just before Jeffries and Simon had parted, Jeffries told Simon a little
story.
“The other day,”
Jeffries said, “I’d gone to Montrose Park to eat my lunch. Y’know, to get away from those jokers at the site. And this dumpy little man came walking
by. He dumped his dumpy little coat on
the ground and jumped up on a park bench and started preaching like it was
Sunday morning.” Just before leaving to
return to the site, Jeffries heard the man give his name to another
passerby. “Al Harrigan,”
Jeffries said. “Sounds like a goddamn
politician’s name!”
At the mention of
the name, all of the hairs on the back of Simon’s neck rose, and he thanked
Jeffries profusely for all of his help.
The next morning, Simon hired a private detective--at considerable
expense--to see if Harrigan was still in the
District.
“Lord knows, you can
be fo’given for buying in to Roo-z-velt’s
pie-in-the-sky promises.”
Harrigan was.
“But now look at yo’selves,” Harrigan
shouted. “Look around, look at the
faces. How many of you owes your job to the WPA, or the PWA, or the AAA, AKA, QT,
KKK?” Some in the growing crowd chuckled
at this, and even Harrigan allowed himself a laugh
and a wide grin. “How can you trust a
man who names gov’ment agencies with a grammar school
primer?” A few more laughed. “My brothers and sisters, you was hoodwinked, all right.
Big man promised you freedom, promised deliv’ry
from bondage, promised like Moses to lead you unto the promised
land! Can I get an a-men!?”
“A-men, boy,” a man
yelled back.
“Well, you are
slaves,” Harrigan hissed, stretching out slave until
it was three syllables long. “Big man
FDR has led you further into bondage, has led you into Egypt, and there ain’t nothin’ but the Sahara
ahead of ya!
Who among you can love, honor, and, above all, fe-ar
Almighty Gohd when you can’t even rely upon your
own souls? You been hoodwinked, robbed
of ya dignity, robbed of ya
strength, robbed of ya hard-earned prosper’ty. Book of Ecclezastees 7:14:
‘In the day of prosperity be happy, but in the day of advers’ty consider--Gohd has made
the one as well as the other so that ma-an may not
discover anything that will be after him.’ We suffer, brothers, to love Him above
all. We suffer, sisters, to see the way
home as clear as the mornin’ sun! Most important, we suffer to test the
strength and cou’age of ou-ur
character.” Harrigan
now bent low, his voice a loud growl.
“Dost thou see the devil in Washington?
Can I get an a-men?” A woman in the back of the crowd
responded. “We must recall the spirit a’
self-reliance! We must reclaim the soul
of this great nation from the jaws of idleness and sloth! Can I get an a-men?”
From the trees,
Simon watched as the crowd (now numbering thirty-five), allowed itself to be
whipped into a frenzy. It was a
fascinating if disturbing sight. He was
certain that few if any really agreed with Harrigan,
but they were still getting caught up in his energy and obvious
enthusiasm. Simon had seen this repeated
several times over the previous three days as he’d followed the pastor from one
impromptu sermon to another, always in a public park, always with him throwing
his coat to the ground and standing on a bench railing against the “devil
lately come to Washington.”
As far as Simon
could remember from political science and history classes, the survival of John
Nance Garner was likely, likely, to produce no major changes to the
future. But that man who tried to assassinate him, the man who was now free to
roam Washington, DC without so much as a cursory glance from city police (who
were no doubt used to such park displays, especially in the age of the Great
Depression) was a different case.
Something had changed in 1939, something that was still relatively minor
but with the potential to be much worse.
Despite his comic, almost buffoonish nature, Pastor Al Harrigan of the Church of Greater Salvation and Spirit,
Suffolk, Virginia, seemed to be that change, or at least the likeliest
candidate Simon had encountered.
Simon took out a
small, spiral bound notepad and looked at some of Harrigan's
proclamations of the last few days.
FDR has deprived
you of your souls. Roosevelt is the
blessing of the eye of the tiger. He's
Satan incarnate lately come to Washington.
We must drive the evil out of the District of Columbia...
"I tell ya children, we must drive Roo-z-velt,
Satan incarnate, ou-ute of
the
“Amazing and sad,
isn’t it,” a low, dignified voice said from behind Simon. Simon looked over his shoulder and saw a man
dressed in the black clothing of a priest, complete with white collar and a
small chain leading, no doubt, to a cross over his heart. The priest’s eyes, which were partially
hidden by a wide-brimmed black hat, stared intently at Harrigan. “Something about this place," he said,
waving his hands at the brown though stately trees, "it’s proximity to our
hallowed halls over there,” he pointed to the top of one of Georgetown
University’s main buildings, just barely visible behind the trees, “draws them
like moths to a flame. And these poor
souls listen. These poor souls
listen.” He looked at Simon. Litchfield got a better look at the priest’s
face, his gray eyebrows, the age lines next to the eyes and the corners of the
mouth. But as the priest smiled, his
expression changed almost immediately, and years seem to melt away from his
sixty-five or seventy year old frame. “I
take it you are not one of poor little lambs who’s
lost his way.”
"Peter
3:14-18," Harrigan yelled. "'But even if
you should suffer for righteousness’ sake, you are blessed. 'And do not be afraid of their threats, nor
be troubled.' But sanct'fy
the Lord Gohd in yo-ur
hearts, and always be ready to give a defense to everyone who asks ya a reason for the hope that is in you, with meekness and
fear; havin' a good conscience, that when they defame
ya as evildoers, those who revile yo-ur
good conduct in Christ may be ashamed.'"
Harrigan lifted his arms up in emphasis as he
shouted, "Do ya hear me, brothers and
sisters? Peter said let 'em be ashamed!
Let the evil-doers be ashamed! 'For it is better, if it is the will of Gohd,
to suffer for doin' good than for doin'
evil. For Christ also suffer'd once for sins, the just for the unjust, that He
might bring us to Gohd, bein'
put to death in the flesh but made alive by the Sp'rit.'"
“Not with him
anyway,” Simon
spoke as the crowd cheered again. Then,
considering his current situation, he added.
“Now, I am a little lost, but for other reasons entirely.”
“Many are lost,” the
priest said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, neat, black
billfold. “I often wonder how much my
students truly understand in their Theology classes. If, however, you decide to seek
another way,” he pulled a business card from his wallet, “do not hesitate to
call me or to attend services this week.”
He handed the card to Simon, and as he did so, the priest’s face
practically beamed with kindness.
“Thank you,” Simon
spoke as he took the card, and he couldn’t help but return the smile.
"It is a fine
December afternoon," the priest said.
"Some hate the winter. As
for myself, I see it as a time of renewal.
As a way of our Lord reminding us that what appears dead is indeed alive
with the spirit. Good luck in your walk,
my son, and may you find your way home."
The priest breathed deeply.
"I bid you good day,” he said, and he turned to walk up the path
towards the university.
Simon looked down at
the card, laughed, and then started to look back at Harrigan. However, he stopped and pulled the card back
out. “Reverend Canon Christopher Moon,”
Simon spoke. “Father Christopher
Moon?” Canon Moon?
he thought. Cannon
Moon? He laughed again, much louder
this time, and placed the card in his pocket.
Still laughing, he returned his gaze to Harrigan,
who appeared to be winding down. Simon
knew that soon, perhaps even later that day, he was going to have move in
closer, actually talk to the would-be assassin.
Before he did that, however, he wanted to be sure to have his story
straight, and he started plotting out the course of a fictitious life in his
mind. Simon had “acted” before, but this
was potentially the most important acting job of them all, and he didn’t want
to blow possibly his only chance in the spotlight.
****
"We need to
spruce up the place a little," Mr. Percy T. "Pete" Griffith said
as he looked at some cracks in the plaster.
"Yes, I need to do some patch work and then get a little paint. Might make this old house that much more
pleasant."
"Don't know,
Pete," Ackland, a bricklayer and all-around
handyman said, "I think the place looks pretty keen myself, 'specially with times bein' what
they are." Ackland
stubbed out his hand-rolled cigarette into the full yellow ashtray. Mrs. Griffith placed more strips of bacon, fatty
and dripping with liquefied lard, onto a cracked blue and white plate.
"Mister
Griffith," she said, "is justly proud of what he has
accomplished. Why, not even four years ago,
when no one had any money to their name, he still managed to add the canning
room out back and two more bedrooms upstairs." Mr. Griffith shrugged. Simon, who was watching and listening,
grabbed two slices of bacon and placed them between two buttered biscuit
halves.
"Need replacing
soon, too," he said as he shook his head.
"I don't trust work done with scrap materials."
"Still looks
pretty good to me, Mr. Griffith," Cecil the ballplayer said just before
shoveling in a mouthful of grits. Simon
laughed quietly despite his generally fretful mood. Harrigan
doesn't usually get out until 8AM, he thought. I've got at least forty minutes to go.
"Listen,
Pete," Ackland said as Mrs. Griffith disappeared
into the kitchen, "and I only tell you this 'cause you're my friend. You are an old, fusspot. Hell, you've got the most well kempt house in
the whole damned neighborhood!"
Griffith shook his head and vehemently tapped his left pointer finger on
the table. Simon finished the last of
his biscuit, wiped his hands, and then pushed back from the table.
"Depression or
no depression," Griffith said in a tone of voice just below a yell,
"a man's got to have standards, and this place isn't living up to
mine. I tell you...say, Dr.
Litchfield?" Simon, who had stood
up and put on his hat, nodded at Griffith.
"You going by Cool Blend Tobacco
today?"
"The one just
down from Philby's?" Simon asked.
"That's the
one," Griffith said. He reached
into his pocket and pulled out some change.
"Pick me up a bag of Mail Pouch, will you." He handed the coins to Simon. "I appreciate it!"
"I may not be
back until tonight," Simon said, but Griffith just waved him off.
"Got enough to
last me 'til then," he said. Simon
smiled and then headed for the door. If
I'm back, he thought. With any
luck, I'll resolve this thing now and get out of here. The morning was cold and clear, and Simon
braced himself for his dealings with a murderer who, in this world, had never
actually committed a crime.
****
Simon, from his
usual vantage point in the trees, watched as the crowd (this time in Rock Creek
Park) began to thin. Simon waited until
almost everyone had left, many throwing coins into Harrigan's hat as they walked away. Harrigan bowed and
praised God and did virtually everything but dance as the crowd dispersed. Finally, he removed the coins from his hat
and placed them in his pocket. It was
then that Simon stepped out. Approaching
Harrigan as the pastor was putting on his jacket,
Simon tapped him on his shoulder.
"Brother Harrigan," Simon spoke, affecting a bit of a Southern
accent. "I've heard some people
speak of you around town, and I was hopin' to hear
one of your blessed sermons. I see,
however, that I am too late." Harrigan, his green-brown eyes twinkling with delight,
turned round to look at Simon. The
strands of the pastor's comb-over flapped gaily in the light breeze.
"It's never too
late for a solemn shepherd to speak with a lamb of Gohd." He reached out his hand, and Simon shook it
as if he was shaking the hand of a hero.
"Christopher
Chapman," Simon said reverently.
"It is a genuine pleasure to meet you, sir."
"Mr.
Chapman," Harrigan spoke. "And just what is it being said 'bout
me? Good I hope." The pastor smiled widely, revealing teeth that
were in remarkably good shape.
"They
say," Simon said, "that you speak the truth, and that you aren't
afraid to confront the devil in all his guises.
Is this true?" Harrigan placed his right hand over his heart.
"Is true, is
true," he spoke humbly. "I
have seen the devil lately come to Washington, and I'm not 'fraid
to call Mr. Roo-z-velt by his name. Yea, I call him ou-ute,
I call him ou-ute." Simon nodded with the enthusiasm of a
sycophant.
"A-men,
brother," Litchfield said quietly. Harrigan nodded and then put on his shabby brown hat.
"Walk with me, brother Chapman," Harrigan
said as he began walking up one of the park's paths. "It's been a bit 'larming
last day or so. Some of the local
constables have begun 'costing me, sayin' I don't have
proper permits. As if the Almighty and
his many vessels 'quire permission. Ain't that a sign if ever there was of the cr'uption that damn Yankee dragged into the capt'al."
"It is amazin'," Simon spoke.
"Pastor, where are you from?
Why haven't I heard of you before?
Someone as powerful as yourself should be heard in a proper place of
worship." Harrigan
nodded in appreciation.
"I'm from Coun'y of Suffolk, City of Suffolk in Gohd's
own country, the Com'wealth of Virginia," Harrigan said proudly.
He doffed his hat to a young woman as she passed by, and Simon followed
suit. "I'm pleased to call the
Church of Greater Salvation and Sp'rit my home."
"How big is
your congregation, if I may ask?"
Harrigan made a large circle with his arms. "Why Brother Chapman," he boomed,
"whole world's my congregation!"
He laughed heartily. "Yeah,
everyone's a member of my church. All
are brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins. All are intimate relations to me, sp'rit warrias, shoulders on the common wheel!" Quick puffs of steam jetted out with each of Harrigan's words. "Men and women; Christian and heathen; white, yellow, redman, darkie.
All of us fightin'
together!"
"Loved your
sermon, sir," a man said as he passed by, and Harrigan
doffed his hat again. Then, the pastor
cleared his throat.
"'course,"
he said, "my 'mediate relations number twenty-two men, women, and
children. All good
Christian souls, everyone a' them.
Praise Jesus, with his blessin' we will be a-growin' over the next year, partic'uly
when more are guided by the Hand of Gohd to the
Knowledge, Knowledge foretold in the Book, ya
understand, of Satan's reign in the White How-oos."
"Praise
Jesus," Simon spoke fervently. This
isn't working, he thought. It's
like having 'forty-two' without knowing the right question. "Hand of God," he spoke. "What a powerful phrase, Pastor Harrigan. You think
people are often guided by the Hand of God?"
"Most
certainly, can I get an a-men," Harrigan spoke.
"A-men,"
Simon replied.
"Hands of Gohd are evr'where," Harrigan continued, "if you are willin'
to look closely enough. They lurk in the
shadows, they spring from the rivers, they dance in
the clouds." He looked over at
Simon. "Why, sometimes, they're
even people. People, bringin'
messages from the Almighty, givin' directions as to
His will." Simon saw his chance.
"Have you seen
any Hands of God, lately, Pastor Harrigan?" he
asked. Harrigan
laughed bitterly.
"I have,
Brother Chapman. Praise Jesus, I
have!" Harrigan
stopped near a bench and sat down. "Fo'give me. I'm often a bit winded after I'm done bloviatin' as the dear departed President Hardin' woulda said."
Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean handkerchief. He handed it to Harrigan,
who looked up appreciatively as he mopped fresh sweat from his forehead. "I appreciate it."
"No
problem," Simon spoke as he waved off Harrigan's
attempts to return it.
Yeah," Harrigan continued while clutching the handkerchief in his
fist, "I've seen one of His hands of late.
Told me sp'icifally what Gohd's
will was, moved me with the sp'rit towards the action
I knew," Harrigan pointed to his heart, "I
knew I was divinely ordered to carry ou-ute" Harrigan
smiled. "You know, Brother Chapman,
sometimes the Hand of Gohd gives us orders we do
not want to obey, we do not agree with. But, we carry through,
we carry through because ou-urs is not to question
His will. His will. Can I get an a-men,
brother?"
Simon nodded. "Amen, Pastor Harrigan."
Harrigan grew quiet, and a smile spread over his face
as his eye compressed to slits.
"But this one, brother, this one I whole-heart'ly
agreed with. Body
and soul. You understan', my friend?" Simon nodded.
"I believe I
do, sir," Simon muttered, and inside he was beginning to feel that he
understood all too well. "So,"
Simon continued, "you carried through with your order from the
hand?" Harrigan's
expression fell quickly, and he shook his head.
"No," Harrigan said as he stood up and started walking again along
the path. "You see, Brother
Chapman, the Hand of Gohd projects His will, but the
Devil, now, the Devil sends ou-ute hands of his
own. Ohhh,
that Devil is a wily one! And this time,
he thwarted me. Thwarted
Gohd!" Harrigan smiled and
waved his right hand in the air.
"But his time shall come. We
have the Word, the Book, the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, all proph'cying Satan's downfall. The Devil has only so many hands, and they
shall be slapped down by and by."
"By and by,
sir," Simon added. "By and by!"
Harrigan pointed a finger at Simon and nodded
vigorously.
"You know,
brother," Harrigan said, "you've asked a
great many questions abo-ute the Hand of Gohd. It's a pity we
didn't meet six years ago. Under the insp'ration of the Almighty, I produced a little book of my
own, devotin' one whole chapta
to the Hand. Alas, it sold por'ly, and the few copies I had left perished when the Nansemond flooded the church two summers back. But, Brother Chapman, I believe you can help
me. I'm searchin'
now fo' a place to talk, a
proper gatherin' point where I may address the
masses. When that day comes, may I call
upon you, as a witness, to testify abo-ute the
Hands?"
Simon choked back
the urge to laugh. "Certainly,
pastor," Simon said disingenuously.
"When that day comes, I shall be there. Put out the word, and I shall
attend!"
"Bless you,
brother," Harrigan said. "If you'll excuse me, I need to find
another pasture where some of Gohd's lambs may be grazin'. Goodbye, brother, and a-men!" Harrigan walked
more quickly along the path, the fat beneath his chin now wobbling left and
right. Simon stopped and scratched his
cheek.
I don't know, he thought, he could be. He could be. Seems a bit... Simon shook his head and drove out the thought
that tried to impose itself. Where
can I find a copy of that book? No
remainder stores? Don't know how many
self-respecting Christian stores would have carried it. Simon started walking, intending to find a
pay phone. I suppose there's just a chance
he thought as he tried to remember the last time he'd been to the Library of
Congress.
****
Simon stood, looking
at the area surrounding the main desk of the Library of Congress. It had been a long time since he had come
here--will come here, actually, he thought. At first, things had seemed relatively
normal, until, that is, he instinctively began looking for the computers. What amazed him was how few times he had thus
suffered from culture shock, future shock, really, he thought, but a
severe case of it had overwhelmed him from several minutes. Finally, he was able to recover and made his
way to the card catalogs.
He had looked for
nearly an hour, never actually expecting to find what he had indeed found. It was a card for The True and Gospel
Understanding of the Word of God by Pastor Al Harrigan. Dumbfounded but delighted, he had made his
way to the desk, filled out the required paperwork, and requested the
book. Several times, the librarian had
insisted there was little chance the book would actually be there, but Simon
kept requesting it until she relented.
Now, waiting, he
looked for nearest empty reading room.
"Mr.
Litchfield," an older woman with graying hair tied up in a bun said as she
approached the desk. "It is a
truism in my field that there are only two unpredictable things in this
world--the day the Grim Reaper will come for you, and the capriciousness of a
bored cataloguer." She handed the
book--cheaply bound in even cheaper binding--to Litchfield, who nodded
sympathetically.
"I'm
sure," he said, "and I can imagine the grief this must cause to
diligent and overworked staff such as yourself." The woman nodded, and her glasses chain
clinked.
"I can assure
that you are the first--and if I have anything to do with it, last--individual
to check out this book. This...tome...does
the institution no credit." Simon
took the book, tipped his hat, and headed for the nearest available reading
room. Once inside, he removed his hat
and began flipping through it.
No expense was spared, he thought.
They cut every one they could find. The pages were uneven, the type face varied
every few pages, and the text was riddled with typos, misspellings, odd turns of phrase.
There seemed to be no logical order to the material either, with chapters
on salvation followed by discussions on how to prepare foods in a biblically
sound manner. The strangest chapter of all was the promised discussion on
"The Hands of God."
The Hands of God
are everywhere, the book said, the hands of God are everyone. They drop upon us from the trees. They find us in our homes, eating supper or
sleeping in our beds. They reach out,
grasp us, circle us, enrobe us in their divine fingers.
"Is he talking
about God or a stalker?" Simon spoke quietly. The rest of the chapter was just as
disorganized and just as disquieting as the beginning. Simon closed the book and cradled his chin on
his hands. The book was proving to be of
little help. It wasn't that he'd
expected to find a chapter entitled "Death to Roo-z-velt: Here's How I Plan to Kill the
President," but he had thought he'd find something to indicate how Harrigan could possibly affect the future in a significant
enough way to trigger the changes Eckert's machine had been finding.
Simon sat back and
rubbed his eyes. So, what's left,
he thought. What's left that I can
try? What angle's left to examine? He grabbed the book, stood up, and
returned it to the desk. Then, he headed
out into the morning. He needed to go
buy a packet of Mail Pouch for Mr. Griffith.
Then, he needed to go check his stack of old papers. There was an address Simon needed to find.
****
Litchfield stepped
out of the cab on Kettlewell Road, paid and tipped
the driver, and then stepped on the curb and looked around the area. According to everything he could find, this was the site of Vice-President Garner's
accident, the place where according to Simon's knowledge of history Garner had
been assassinated by Harrigan.
The area was a
small, bleak island of fields and factories nestled in an otherwise fairly
populated area. On the left side of the
street for the span of two city blocks were fields of brown grass and dirt and
gravel parking areas spotted with snow.
On the right side were a branch railroad line and sidings serving two
different factories. Both factories were
red brick structures surrounded by water and chemical tanks as well as small
outbuildings, stacks of crates, and other signs of industry. Neither had windows. The closest factory hummed with the sound of
machinery. Wind blew steadily and
occasionally gusted fast enough to cause Simon to steady himself.
It just doesn't
seem right, Simon thought as
he studied the lay of the land. Something
like an assassination deserves a suitably momentous setting. The occasional car or truck drove by on
the cracked asphalt, and he could see a couple of hobos in the distance
gathered around a fire-filled trashcan.
Otherwise, whoever was around was inside the factories. Simon walked over to the road and crouched
down, scanning the surface and the street.
He was traveling
from the north, Simon
thought. Harrigan
placed something on the road, probably no more than a minute before the car's
arrival. Along the gutters were
small pieces of pulverized glass. Plausible
anyway, he thought. This could
have been dropped by anybody, though.
He stood up and looked back towards the first factory. An area along the side of it appeared to be
in shadow, so Simon headed for it, crossing over both sets of railroad tracks. His eyes watered in the cold breeze, and he
stopped to wipe the streams of tears away with the sleeve of his coat.
As he stepped onto
the graveled area near the wall, the noise of the factory increased
substantially, and the air was filled with vibrations and rattling sounds. Three crates were stacked, providing cover
while still offering just enough view of the road. Simon stepped out, rubbing the back of his
neck. The setting was perfect, perfect
enough to have worked once. So,
he wondered as looked on the ground for a board or stick, why didn't it work
this time? What changed? Something that looked like a broken broom
handle lay on the grass next to the gravel strip, and Simon walked over and
picked it up. Reaching into his pocket,
he pulled out the small time piece he'd acquired and checked the time. 4:17PM.
"All
right," he said, "I'm Pastor Al Harrigan. I'm mad as hell, and I'm not gonna take it anymore.
And the Hand of God has told me this is the right thing to
do!" Simon looked towards the other
side of the factory and noticed there was both vehicular access and places
where a car could have been parked. Okay,
put my gun by the crates, he thought, run
to the car and grab a couple of bottles from my trunk. Simon mimed lifting bottles from a hypothetical
car, and then he ran towards the road, slowing to negotiate the rails, ballast,
and railroad ties. He then bounded
towards the curb and out into the road.
He stood on the left side, smashed a pretend bottle on the road and
scattered the glass with his feet and then repeated the process on the right
side. 4:18, close to 4:19, Simon
contemplated, and he headed back to the crates as fast as he could. The adrenaline's really pumping. I'm hyped up, maybe more than I've ever
been. There's a devil a-coming, and I've
been chosen by God to smite him down.
He nearly tripped
when his feet hit the gravel, but he managed to stumble forward and regained
his balance just in time to throw his back against the wall. His chest heaved as freezing air coursed in
and out of his lungs. He picked up the
broom handle, his left hand on the "barrel," his right on the
"trigger." I see him, I see
him! FDR's turned onto the street! I could've been thwarted if any other traffic
came through, but I haven't been. It's providence,
divine providence! In his mind, he
could see the car, see it as it swerved to avoid the glass only to find more,
heard the tires burst. Or maybe they
just deflated. Same
difference. Okay...okay.. The factory's sounds were so loud along
the wall that Simon found it difficult to think. Okay...they've stopped. One chance, Al. One chance. Three...two... ONE!
Like a man possessed, or at least enthralled by the "spirit,"
Simon sprinted out with his "gun," saw the driver wondering what he was
going to do, saw the occupant of the backseat writhing with either back pain or
a pain in his chest caused by smashing into the front seats.
Simon was near the
tracks, the factory sounds diminishing, but as he started to level the gun and
cross the rails, some sound, some sense of danger caused him to stop. This turned out to be a fortunate decision,
for at that moment a camelback switching engine and ten freight cars chugged
by. Simon was separated from the train
by the outer rail of the siding and the ballast. He was just able to catch the name on the
side of the camelback's tender--Union & Indianapolis.
Okay, he thought, I'm pumped up and now scared to
death. Simon's heart pounded, and he
could feel himself breaking out into a cold sweat. Three cars, two cars, one car,
caboose...NOW! Simon was just
getting ready to charge again when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that
the nearest factory was emptying.
Workers were walking across the tracks, heading for the cars in the
parking lot. Two cabs pulled up and
immediately filled with people.
Simon stood up and
dropped the broom handle. That's it,
he thought. He crossed the tracks and
then sat down on the grass. He caused
Garner's car to crash, but the local freight caught
him before he could close in for the kill.
Down the tracks, the camelback blew its steam whistle as it
approached a crossing. By the time
the train had cleared, those people had gone off shift and were heading
home. Too many
witnesses. Harrigan would have run back to his car and headed to
wherever he was staying. Maybe I'd
have the guts to try again, Simon thought as he waved at a confused looking
worker. I'm thinking no, at least not
for awhile.
At least he knew now
why Harrigan's attempt had failed. What he didn't know was why the train that
didn't stop him in the original time line had thwarted the pastor this
time.
As Simon sat and
thought, he became aware of someone walking towards him. The man appeared to be one of the hobos he'd
seen earlier.
“I
seen ya’ with yer walkin’ stick,” the hobo spoke, his S’s hissing through
missing front teeth. “The fella the other day,” the hobo stopped to laugh. “The fella the
other day, he ain’t used no walkin’
stick. No sir, not at all.” Simon looked over the man. The hobo couldn’t have been cast any
better. In addition to his missing
teeth, the man had several days worth of salt and
pepper whiskers on his wrinkled face.
His eyes, what could be seen of them anyway, were brown, and one eye
seemed to be in a perpetual squint. He
wore a worn brown coat with matching shirt and shoes, also equally worn. On his head was a black Stetson.
“The other fellow,”
Simon spoke as he stood up. “Yes, I’d be
most interested to hear what you had to say on the subject of the other fellow,
Mr…”
“Ain’t
got no name,” he laughed, “ain’t had one before this
here depression, ain’t ‘quired
one since Don’t
need it.” Simon nodded.
“Well, what do your
friends call you?” Simon asked. Inwardly,
he cringed as he waited for some comment like “ain’t
got no friends.”
“Ghost Man,” he
spoke, and he let out a crazed cackle.
“Haunt everywhere they don’t chase me out. This here been my home for
three years. I
seen the other man. Talked to him, too.
You wanna hear what he wanna heard?”
"Certainly, my
friend the Ghost Man," Simon replied.
"Why, though, do I have the feeling that you're not just being
helpful out of the kindness of the your
heart?" Ghost Man laughed and then
momentarily doubled over in a fit of phlegmatic coughing. Simon rushed over and helped him up, and he
was nearly overwhelmed by the stench of whisky, cheap cigarettes, and decay.
"Well,"
Ghost Man said as he finally stopped coughing, though a low wheeze permeated
his every word and breath, "ain't never been
fond o' soup. But that's all them damn churches and missions handin'
out. As you can see, t'aint
got much altern'tive."
"And,"
Simon continued, "you'd like me to supply you
with the means to change that."
Ghost Man smiled even more, revealing vestiges of gums so drained of
color that they were barely pink. A
patch of snow crunched beneath his feet.
"You ain't dumb!" he exclaimed. "Three bucks in this here hand, and I'll
spill what's left of m'beans!"
"Do me a
favor," Simon spoke as he removed his wallet and pulled out the
money. "When you're telling me what
I want to know, avoid repeating that particular piece of imagery." Ghost Man took the money and then rapidly
stowed it somewhere within the confines of his coat. "Now, tell me about
the other fellow."
"I seen this
guy drive up," Ghost Man started.
He sat on the ground and slowly crossed his legs. A burst of steam shot up through the
smokestack of the factory. "I knew
he weren't from 'round here. You see 'em all the time.
They usually come to town for the soup."
"Soup?" Simon queried, instantly becoming suspicious.
"Yeah,"
Ghost Man continued, "I hear'd about jobs with
alphabet soup. They comin'
for the soup, I figures!"
"Okay,"
Simon spoke, "I follow now.
Continue."
"I'm with a
couple a pals by a fire, and then this guy, he comes over t'talk. Dumpy guy, bald, ain't
wearin' no coat." Simon nodded, recognizing the description of Harrigan. "He
says, uh, he says, 'I'm looking fer the Greater Gospel
Tabernacle. Any of you boys know where
that is?' So, I says, I says, "Uh,
no, ain't never hear'd of
it. And I make it my business to know
where them churches are!" Ghost Man shifted his weight so that his
pants were on a slightly less snowy patch of ground. "He says the dangest
thing. Says, um, ah,
um." Ghost Man sniffed. "Says, 'Hand-o gohad
ain't with me t'day,
boys. One of the devil's
lately come musta fiddled with the map.'"
"So what did he
do next?" Simon asked, trying to get Ghost Man
passed the syntactical nightmare of Harrigan's
speech.
The hobo
continued. "I says,
'What devils?' And he says, 'Why one of
them same devils keeping you down, the demons dragged in by Roo-z-velt!' I says, "
Simon blinked. "How did you know that the president was
in that car?"
"Hey
buddy!" a man near the factory yelled as he stepped out a side door. "You got a light?" Simon looked towards the factory and shook
his head.
"Oh, I know a
president when I sees one," Ghost Man
continued. "See, I ain't always been the fellow you see standin'
here, in all me glorious wonder!"
Lifting himself from the ground, he stood up straight and stared at the
flagpole in front of the factory.
Someone, probably an office worker, was busy lowering the forty-eight
starred American flag. "I haven't,
you see, always been a ghost. I used to
be Harry George Bellhorn III, Lt. US Army! I saw them Rough Riders! I saw TR and knew, then, that fella was gonna be president some
day!" He looked, smiling, at
Simon. "Ain't
it a grand gift, chum? Ain't it grand!" Ghost Man laughed and again doubled over
coughing.
"Yeah,"
Simon spoke, quietly, a dejected tone in his voice. "Yeah, it's grand, Ghost Man."
"Hey," a
second man called from the factory, "you fellas
move along! We've got a job to do
here!" He struck a match and lit
the first man's cigarette.
Simon retrieved his
wallet and took out one more dollar. "I appreciate your help," he said
as he handed the bill to Ghost Man
"An'
time!" Ghost Man said as he doffed his hat to Simon. "Come back an' time you wants to. Just yell out, 'Ghost Man,' and I'll be right
there!" The hobo headed back
towards the trash fire as Simon again sat on the ground. Somewhere in the distance, Simon would've
sworn he heard the sound of a wall collapsing or a thousand glass windows
smashing.
This cinches it, he thought.
It's official, I'm a fool.
It was all too clear now, the reality of the situation. Simon thought about the two kinds of insanity
he'd witnessed in his work and travels.
One category, by far the most common he'd seen in his line of work, was
the 'insane genius,' someone possessing great talents and abilities but who by
virtue of his or her work or simply by his or her temperament had firmly lost
touch with reality. Hitler came to mind
by virtue of Simon's current temporal circumstances. But there was also Dr. Geisel
in Nigeria, and Dr. Federov in Russia, William Gryphius, Celinde, Baranoff, and any number of others he'd encountered. Too many of them, he thought as more
faces and unpleasant memories drifted past.
This brand of insanity, Simon knew, was difficult to anticipate and
counter since those suffering from it were resourceful, clever, wily, and often
thoroughly unpredictable.
But then there was
the second category, 'simple insanity,' people crushed under the weight of
their own delusions and fantasies, people with few if any skills at planning
and rational thinking. Within this
category, there was also a specific subset, the 'insane but lucky.'
Al Harrigan, as history was originally recorded, was the
assassin of John Nance Garner. If Simon
was right, the pastor had scouted out a good location for his ambush and waited
until the Vice-President's car was incapacitated. Plus points for ingenuity. However, all of those points were negated by
two simple facts. First, Pastor Al Harrigan had used a half-crazed hobo as an intelligence
asset, listening to Ghost Man and, more damningly, acting upon Ghost
Man's claims of an unprotected President of the United States passing by each
day on Kettlewell Road. Second, as Simon's re-enactment had shown, Harrigan the first time had been the recipient of plain
luck, luck that was apparently very easily undone by the changes taking place.
This information,
combined with Harrigan's book and his words and
actions had spelled things out very clearly to Simon, and what was tearing him
apart more than anything else was the knowledge that, deep down, he'd always
known but simply couldn't admit it to himself. Harrigan, after all,
had been Simon's only solid lead, but all pretense now
had to be discarded.
Pastor Al Harrigan of the Church of Greater Salvation and Spirit,
Suffolk, Virginia, was, most assuredly, insane but lucky. The scales tipped in his direction once,
Simon thought, but they never will again. He looked into the rapidly darkening
skies. Harrigan
couldn't be the source of the changes taking place. He's merely a symptom, Simon thought, and,
like the survival of Garner, an unimportant symptom at that.
Square
one.
Simon stood up and
walked up the tracks, heading in the direction the U&I
train had traveled. Camelbacks,
Simon thought. Damn things never made
much sense to me. A car driving by
beeped loudly, and someone yelled something about a train
coming. Simon waved at them, being sure
to lower almost all of his fingers save one before finally lowering his whole
hand. Firebox in
the back, driver up on top.
Heck of a way to run a train.
Ballast and ice
crackled as Simon walked along the ties.
As day faded into night, rays of streetlights danced upon the rails,
making it look as if he was walking an illuminated path. Occasionally, he paused long enough on his
journey to kick a rock and listen to the noises it made as it careened along
the ties and off the rails.
Simon followed the
track for over a mile before a loud steam whistle echoed through the
darkness. He looked up and watched as a
passenger train glided by, its line crossing over the one upon which he was
walking. Probably heading for U&I's station, he thought as the last coach
disappeared behind a building. It was
then he noticed his heart leaping with joy, and he smiled despite his
mood. The next layout he built--if I
ever build another one he thought as a wave of pain crashed into his
mood--would have to include a steam engine or two. He looked up towards the clear evening
sky.
"A moon full of
stars and astral cars," he sang quietly, puffs of steam rising in the air,
"and all the figures I used to see."
Simon, following the
spur, crossed a quiet street, crossed onto the double tracks of the main line,
and looked at his surroundings. To his
left, the main line tracks quickly curved behind a line of buildings. To his right was a straighter stretch of
track. In front of him was a small freight yard--six tracks; various cross-overs; an array of box, flat, and tank cars; and a wooden
structure that probably served as an office for those who worked the yard. He also saw a sanding tower and water tower
though there was no coaling station. Probably
goes up the line to a roundhouse when the engine needs coal, he
thought. In the illumination of the
streetlights, he could just make out the camelback he'd seen earlier. There was a distinct lack of activity in the
yard.
"Gone home for
the evening," he said. Home,
he thought. He stepped down off the
right-of-way and started looking for a pay phone. After all, Simon had seen Mrs. Griffith turn
away borders who were not at the table,
"promptly," by 6PM. Once he'd
eaten--and he would eat, regardless of how appetizing or unappetizing the meal
appeared--he'd have to go back to his room and figure out where to start again.
As he walked, Simon
spotted a Christmas wreath hung on tobacco shop's door. "Late December" he said. First Christmas decoration I've seen,
he thought. It looked more and more like
he'd be spending Christmas in the past, and as the thought crossed his mind he
stopped, almost frozen in place. Christmas,
he thought. It's hard enough without
having to spend it here. If he was
still in 1939 over Christmas, he'd need to find a Catholic church and be sure
to light a candle for Maria. He stopped
himself before he thought more, thought more about that name and all of
the memories and descended into a private melancholy he was not prepared to
deal with at that moment. With great
deliberation, he started walking again, concentrating on the cold, on the task
at hand, and on the hot meal that awaited him.
****
It was early, 5AM the next morning, when Simon stood by the Chesapeake & Ohio canal. However, the place was virtually nothing like the C&O he knew and loved. This C&O, thanks to years of benign neglect and flood, was a dirty, fetid, blacke