In Times Like These (30 page)

“Hope yo
ur trip gets better.” He waves as I shut the door behind us.

I take a quick glance skyward at the columns and decorated stone of the façade. A stately green clock with a white face is perched above the sign saying Filene’s. The clock reads 5:25. The last bits of sunlight are reflecting in the glass doors as we file inside among dozens of other holiday shoppers.

“How’s your hand?” I say as we step into the warmth of the store. Tinsel sparkles above the escalators as overloaded shoppers glide upwards.

“My fingertips are turning purple.” Blake holds out his hand. “Feels kind of like a blood blister.”

The skin under the nails on his index and middle fingers has darkened. “Ouch,” I say.

“It’s not hurting that much anymore,” Blake says. “Just looks bad. Hope I don’t lose my fingernails.”

“You guys just want to meet me in the women’s department when you’re done?” Francesca asks.

“All right.”

The men’s department has been relegated to the second floor. We ascend behind a mother holding her two children’s hands. The older girl is probably three. She peers shyly at us from behind her mother’s thigh. She reminds me of my niece. The slightly younger boy keeps grabbing for the railing but the mother pulls him back against her leg at each of his attempts. The trio turns right off the escalator and the little girl follows us with her eyes as she’s dragged away around a display of custom Filene’s Christmas ornaments. I get a sudden pang of homesickness as we veer left for the menswear.

I find myself a basic zip-up, collared black jacket made of some type of synthetic. It’s qu
ilted on the inner liner and I feel instantly warmer as I slide it on. I grab a bag of athletic socks and a dark red, button-down shirt. I look down my thrift store jeans to their slightly damp pant legs and debate grabbing new pants, but opt to head to the shoe department instead. Blake meets me there.

“I got us socks,” I say, and show him the bag. A salesman helps Blak
e pick out a pair of dark, ankle-high boots. I settle for some comfortable lace-up blue sneakers. I keep the shoes laced up as I walk to the sales counter. Yanking the tag off the sleeve of my jacket, I set that on top of the slightly reduced bag of socks. “We’re just going to wear this stuff out.”

The salesman nods stiffly with a look of thin
ly veiled disdain as Blake lays his acquisitions down also. I see Blake has found himself some gloves.
That was smart.

“Will this be cash or charge?”

“It’ll be cash.” I pull a stack of bills out of my backpack and lay it on the counter in front of me. The salesman gives the wad of hundreds a long look before snapping back to his duties at the register.

“Very well
, sir.” His disposition improves. “And, might I interest you in some of our holiday gift sales items?”

“Just the clothes for now.”

I take our change and stuff it into the pocket of my jeans. We find Francesca sitting at the makeup counter in the women’s department, having a saleswoman apply eye shadow for her. She’s wearing some nearly knee-high boots and leggings under a purple cotton dress. She has several large bags piled around her already.

“You’ve been busy.”

She glances from us to her bags, and then gives her attention back to the saleswoman. “Decision making gets a lot easier when you don’t have budget constraints.”

Blake watches the saleswoman put the finishing touches on her eyelids.

“You know that stuff isn’t going to stay on either as soon as we have to make another jump,” Blake says.

“I know,” she replies. “Why do you think I’m not bothering to buy makeup remover?” She gives Blake a wink.

After the saleswoman finishes tallying her bill, Francesca hands her a couple of hundred-dollar bills. “You can keep the change.” The saleswoman smiles and bows slightly. “Thank you miss.”

“Hope your burly bartender friend appreciates the investment,” I say.

Francesca smiles. “It’s Friday night. Who knows what can happen?”

I stop near a fake Christmas tree and put my button-down shirt on over my
T-shirt. I slip my jacket back on and adjust my pack before we head for the doors. Francesca unloads one of her bags and slides her arms into a grey pea coat. She dons a wooly hat with it and wraps a scarf around her neck.

“That was probably a good idea,” I say, eying the snow flurries that have begun to fall outside the glass doors.

“One of these years we should actually stick around for Christmas,” Francesca says.

We emerge back onto th
e sidewalk and I zip up my jacket to keep out the chill.

“You guys want to walk back?”

“I’m okay with it,” Blake says.

Francesca’s mouth and nose are now covered with her scarf but her green eyes are showing and she nods.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and we make our way back north to Union Street. The Green Dragon is glowing bright and bustling with patrons as we walk in. As Francesca unwraps her face, I see the cold has given her cheeks a rosy glow. I scan over the throng of patrons trying to get to the bar, and spot our bartender.

“Do you see Cole?” Francesca asks, trying unsuccessfully to see past the crowd.

“Is that his name? Yeah. He’s back there.” I remove my pack and hand it to Blake. “I’m gonna try to squeeze through. You want a beer while I’m up there?”

“Yeah. That would be good,”
Blake says, as Francesca hands her shopping bags to him as well, leaving him looking a bit like a bellman.

I feel Francesca’s
hands holding my waist as I navigate us toward the bar. The young bartender at our end is not one I recognize, but I task her with our drink order while still trying to catch Cole’s eye. He’s busy figuring a customer’s tab but as he hands it to them and waits for his payment, he scans past the taps and catches sight of me leaning on the bar.

Francesca is squeezing through under my right arm. He gives me a nod and then turns back to his customers to collect their cash. Once he deposits the money into the register and tosses the extra into the tip jar, he strides over to us.

“Hi!” Francesca beams.

Cole peers around the
taps to get a good look at who’s speaking. “Hey there. Wondered if you’d be back.” He smiles. “You guys get drinks yet?”

I gesture toward the other bartender. “She got us.” I start to open my mouth to ask about Guy Friday
, but Cole reads my mind.

“Your man is in the back tonight.” He points over the crowd to a booth in the back corner. I spot the back of a blonde head and three or four pint glasses on the table.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He gives Francesca a wink an
d departs to deal with a middle-aged man with three chins who is waving bills with both arms from the other end of the bar.

Francesca smiles at me. “See, totally worth it.”

She does look good
.

I stand
on tiptoes to catch Blake’s eye and I point him toward the back end of the bar area. I forge through the crowd and meet him midway, to take one of the packs off his hands and trade him his beer.

“He’s here?”

“Yeah, in a booth in the back.”

Francesca has followed me through the patrons, carefully guarding some sort of dark mixed drink with a slice of orange rind in it. I make it to the end of the line of booths and cross to the far side of our target’s table before turning around.

The sandy haired man looks up from his beer and a doodle he’s been drawing on a bar napkin. He looks to be about Blake’s age or possibly younger.

“Excuse me, are you Guy?”

The young man looks from me to Blake and considers our packs and bags before responding. “Could be.”

“Hi. I’m Benjamin.” I set my beer down and extend my hand. Francesca squeezes her way in between Blake and me and smiles. Guy ignores my hand and looks Francesca up and down, stopping unapologetically to stare at her chest. He looks back to me.

“This one yours?”

Francesca’s smile quickly fades. “I’m mine.”

Guy holds his palms up and gives a small shrug. “Just asking.”

He gives his head a small toss to get his floppy hair out of his eyes and takes a sip from his beer.

I already don’t like this guy.

Blake has a go. “We were hoping to talk to you about something rat
her important. Do you have a few minutes?”

Guy gestures vaguely at the other side of the booth while still hold
ing his beer to his lips. As he pulls the glass away, he gives a grin to Francesca and pats the seat next to him with his free hand.

Francesca ignores him and slides into the opposite side. I take her pair of shopping bags from Blake and hand them to her to stuff beside her. Guy seems less enthusiastic to be sliding over for Blake, but does so after a moment.

“Thanks,” Blake says.

“So what’s the big important issue that needs my attention so badly?” Guy says.

“Well . . . we’re—” I pause and start over. “This is Francesca, and this is Blake. We’re traveling together and we’ve gotten into a situation where we could use some help.”

Guy makes no response
, but simply stares at me. I get the impression he’s not even really looking at me.

“We understand you’re a time traveler,” Blake says.

Guy sits up a little straighter and his eyes narrow as he looks from Blake back to me.

“You Journeymen?” h
e asks. His right hand has strayed off the table to somewhere I can’t see.

“No. I don’t think so,” I say. “What are Journeymen?”

Guy’s face relaxes a little and his hand reemerges to the top of the table. “So who are you then?”

“We’re just passing through,” Blake says. “We’re looking for some help. We were referred to you by a friend, sort of.”

“He sort of referred you, or he’s sort of a friend?”

“Both, I guess,” Blake says. “We’re trying to get back to 2009.”

Guy pauses for a moment, then his eyes widen slowly. “Wait a minute.” He points to Francesca and then me and Blake in turn. “Francesca, Benjamin, Blake.”

I nod.

“Oh shit, my little brother is going to flip. Don’t tell me, you were stuck in the beginning of 1986, for what? Two weeks was it? Ha!”

Francesca is taken aback. “How do you know that?”

Guy drains the rest of his beer and clunks it back down on the table. “For that answer, you will need to buy me another beer.” He waves toward the bar. I turn and see that Cole has been watching us. He looks to me and I nod.

Guy is beaming at all of us. “Of all the things to happen to me tonight, I would not have expected this.” He slaps his hand down on the table and the empty pint glasses jump. I pick up my beer to keep it from sloshing over. I’m too late and my fingers get soaked.

“So you can help us?” Blake asks.

A server appears, bearing a beer for Guy
, and he stretches across the table to grab it.

“You
might just have found your lucky day.” He slurps the foam off the top of his beer and then looks at Francesca. “And you might just get lucky.”

Francesca’s eyes narrow.

“Hey, so can we talk about you for a second?” I say. “Who are you, and how did you manage to end up a time traveler?”

“Manage to end up a time traveler?” Guy says mockingly. “I was trained for this. I was born for this.”

“How did you get trained?” I say.

“The best school money can buy
, my friend,” Guy says. “Oh man, Lawrence is so going to wet his pants when I tell him who I found.” He places his hands on the table. “Oh we should go get him! We should totally go blow his little mind.” His eyes roll back a moment as he smiles.

He’s drunk.

“You guys want to meet my little brother?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“Then drink up!” He takes his beer in hand and starts chugging it. Much of it leaks past his mouth and trails down his chin. He slams the glass back down and belches. Francesca recoils slightly across from him.

“Oh, I’m sorry there
, angel. That must have been rude of me.” He turns sideways and gestures with a shooing motion toward Blake. “Let me out. I need to use the head. Then we’ll go!”

Blake slides out of the booth. Guy sways a moment as he exits, but steadies himself on the edge of the table. Then, locking his eyes on the restroom hallway, he staggers into the crowd.

“Wow,” Francesca shakes her head. “I mean, wow.”

“Yeah, he’s a piece of work,” Blake says.

“So what now?” Francesca asks. “We aren’t actually going with him, are we?”

I look from her to Blake as I consider our options. It’s Blake who speaks first however.
“He does know something about us. You heard what he said.”

“Maybe his brother won’t be so difficult,” I add.

“Won’t be an alcoholic douchebag you mean?” Francesca says.