Tesla's Time Travelers (21 page)

“That’s why he’s ticked, Minerva. It has nothing to do with you. I know Junior. He doesn’t care what a girl thinks, he’s only using you as trophy for the dance…or was.”

She was just as bad as Junior. She’d wanted to strut into the Homecoming Dance arm-in-arm with the B.M.O.C., the fabled quarterback of the football team. She didn’t care about Junior either, she admitted to herself. She needed to admit that to Junior, she realized. She needed to come clean.

“I was doing the same thing to him, Victor,” Minerva confessed. “I was using Junior as arm candy.”

Victor smiled. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said. “I thought you might actually like the lug. Hey look, it’s time for
Final Jeopardy!.
”

The emcee announced: “In the category, presidential romances,” and then the screen filled with the
Final Jeopardy!
answer.

Peggy Shippen first met her future husband Thomas Jefferson in this Philadelphia building.

“Oh no, it was bad enough to change history, but I can’t believe I messed up
Final Jeopardy!
too,” Victor whined.

“Da da da da da da da…” The
Final Jeopardy!
music played in the background as the contestants wrote their answers with their Sharpies®.

“What did you do, Victor?” Minerva said. She tried to recall all the events of the day in Philadelphia, but whatever Victor was referring to escaped her.

“Don’t you remember, Minerva? I told Peggy Shippen we were staying at the Graff House. I bet she was in the carriage and it came around to pick us up, but she met Jefferson instead.”

“Oh,” Minerva replied. She remembered now. How odd that a chance remark like that could change history. She thought Victor was being a bit hard on himself. Didn’t Jefferson have to convert her from a Loyalist to a Patriot? Wasn’t that the crucial part of the story?

On television the emcee was reading the responses of the contestants. “’What is Carpenter’s Hall?’ No, I’m sorry, Michael, that is incorrect. And you wagered…$5000. John has ‘What is City Tavern?’ No, that is not correct. John bet $1200. And now to our champion, Linda Coddling… ‘What is the Graff House?’ Yes, the building where Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence and had a chance meeting with Peggy Shippen…and Linda bet $8,000, and is still the champion with a three-day total of $57,000.” The audience began to applaud.

Minerva said nothing. She assumed Victor wanted to vent. If it was any consolation, Victor, she wanted to say, two of the contestants didn’t know the question, although it
was
a
Final Jeopardy!
answer.

“You are being hard on yourself, Victor,” Minerva said and took his hand in hers. He seemed so distraught. She wanted to give him a consolation kiss, but her mom was in the next room and she might walk in at any moment, embarrassing her beyond belief. Minerva was thankful her dad was on call and was at the hospital checking on a patient. Boys felt uncomfortable around her father, Minerva realized. Except for Junior. Junior thought everyone loved him; he was, after all, the football star. What the heck, she thought, looking at Victor. It was the only way to shut him up. She kissed him firmly on the lips and he stopped talking about Peggy Shippen. It was bad enough for Minerva to think of competing for Victor’s attention with another girl, but a sixteen-year-old Loyalist from the 18
th
century was a bit more competition than most girls might expect.

Minerva smiled at Victor. “I wish I could tell my mom what really happened today, Victor. She would have loved the Beards. I don’t think the ghosts she sees at the Cassadaga Hotel are anyway near as fun as the Beards.”

“Mary’s a hoot.” Victor agreed. “But Charles…”

“Charles is a prune,” Minerva said. “Serious prune face.”

“How did you parents take Saturday School?” Victor asked.

“I only told Mom. Dad was at the hospital. He’d go ballistic. And
he would
ground me, so that was only a little bit of a lie to Junior. Mom’s got me covered though; she’ll tell him I’m taking my college boards. Dad won’t know the difference. I mean, he’s here physically but not really mentally, if you know what I mean?”

“Uh huh. My dad doesn’t even know I’m alive. It’s all about Junior. Junior this, Junior that. My dad wanted to be a football star, but he didn’t quite make it—although he was pretty good, I think, in high school. He seems to be living his life over again with Junior. You know, it is sort of funny, Minerva. Dad dotes on Junior, the football hero, as if Junior being a big football star would somehow have an impact on the world. Look what a group of nerds did today to the history of the United States.”

“A little more than they should have, it looks like,” Minerva said.

“I know we have to fix it, Minerva, but I sort of like the idea of Benedict Arnold being a hero. I mean, if he hadn’t met Peggy Shippen and she wasn’t such a little sneak he never would have met that British spy and become a traitor, and what the heck, I’ve never been much of a fan of John Adams.”

“He’s not a very likeable man,” Minerva agreed. “But I don’t understand how we are going to put things back to the proper order.”

“Well, as I understand it, we have to relive the day in Philadelphia and
not
mess up anything, which means, just sit there quietly and let the day pass without interacting with anyone.”

“That’s sounds really boring.”

“It might be, but we have to do it. I’d better get going. I want to get my mom’s car back home before my dad and Junior get back from the game.”

“That’s fine. I’ve got to wash my dress for tomorrow anyway. Bette Kromer is picking me up. Do you need a ride?”

“I’d appreciate one, yeah; my mom needs her car for food shopping on Saturdays.”

She walked Victor to the door and gave him a short goodbye kiss and watched him drive off in his mother’s SUV. She would spend the day with Victor Bridges tomorrow in a return trip to Philadelphia. But in her imagination, she would spend her wedding day beside him. She shook the thought from her head. That image would have to wait until after she graduated from medical school.

As she put her dress into the laundry room dryer, she received a text message from Bette Kromer that read: “Them 35 US zippo.” Poor Junior, she thought, I hope he has a backup plan.

Chapter 17

Nathan Greene arrived at Cassadaga Area High School before dawn, a good two hours before his students were to arrive. Dressed once again in colonial garb, he carried both Rodney’s riding crop and the cane that he had received from Ben Franklin. He trudged to his portable in the darkness with trepidation, for he had been summoned at this early hour. As he approached his classroom he saw the flickering lights, like so many fat fireflies illuminating the building. They were already gathered, he realized, ready to hold court. He counted a dozen flickers as he entered the classroom and he knew that they were angry, for when a ghost was angry he glowed in the dark.

Sheepishly Nathan Greene turned on the light to the portable and the ghosts became visible to him. They floated to seats in the classroom and suddenly each ghost had a name tag that read whimsically: “Hi, I’m Shelby Foote” or “Hi, I’m Barbara Tuchman,” and Nathan realized it was Mary Beard trying to inject a bit of levity into the proceedings. He wished she would just stick with her levitation and skip the levity. It was an august body of dead historians and the angriest of all seemed to be the historian Henry Adams who, Nathan assumed, was really ticked at what had happened to his grandfather and great-grandfather.

No one said anything. Nathan Greene took a seat at his teacher’s desk but was afraid to speak. The dead historians had never before reprimanded him.. Even last spring when Victor had run after John Wilkes Booth, no dead historians had appeared to chastise Nathan for his lack of discipline on a trip. Would they take away his visiting privileges, he wondered? No more trips to the past? He enjoyed the journeys as much as his students, probably more. He didn’t want to think of life without the past, the real past. These twelve were not just dead historians, they were a jury, Nathan realized, and the jury was waiting for someone, for even Mrs. Beard was silent, waiting, anticipating.

Suddenly a 13
th
ghost appeared. Bearded, sandaled, wearing a white robe, the 13
th
ghost looked as if he had just come from the Acropolis in Athens. Indeed, the 13
th
ghost was Thucydides the Greek, the first
real
historian, a scientific historian, not that silly little Herodotus who wrote down whatever whopper anyone fed him. Thucydides looked sternly at Nathan Greene and spoke in Greek, which was truly Greek to Nathan Greene.

“Try English, Thucie,” Mary Beard said.

“Thucie?” Nathan Greene wondered if Mary Beard had something going with the old ghost.

Thucydides tried again. “Nathan Greene,” he said in English. “You have been charged with altering history by the Adams family. How do you plead?”

I’m in big trouble, Nathan realized. I need to seek a delay to be able to fix it.

“With the court’s permission, your historical honor,” Nathan Greene began, “I would like to ask for a postponement, as I have not had a chance to go over the specific charges or obtain counsel.”

“You don’t get counsel here, fat boy!” Henry Adams shouted.

“Order in the court, Mr. Adams,” Thucydides cautioned. “That is not an unreasonable request, Mr. Greene. I will grant you twenty-four hours continuance so that you can prepare your defense or correct the timeline, but I caution you, Mr. Greene, if you are found guilty of altering the past, this sinkhole will be closed forever and the historical timeline will be off limits to you and your students. I must also ask you to return Caesar Rodney’s riding crop to Charles Beard. The Beards travel privileges are hereby revoked until further notice. Mr. Henry Adams, being the aggrieved Adams family’s most notable historian, has now been assigned as your spirit guide from this point on.”

The ghost of Henry Adams grinned delightedly.

“But…the riding crop…”

“We understand that you are planning a return to Philadelphia today, Mr. Greene, but we cannot chance another mistake with the riding crop, nor can we risk leaving you or your students in the past due to the chaos that would portend. Also, under no circumstances are you or anyone in your party allowed to talk to Margaret Shippen of Philadelphia, better known as Peggy Shippen. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, your honor.”

“Any travel you commence today must be accomplished by the use of Ben Franklin’s cane. Please hand me the cane.”

“Yes, sir,” Nathan Greene said, handing the ghost of Thucydides Benjamin Franklin’s cane. The Greek historian blew on the end and the bamboo began to glow.

“There,” he said, handing the cane back to Nathan. “I’ve activated the talisman in the cane. It is usable now and will be good until 1790, when Franklin dies.”

That was something Nathan Greene hadn’t known. Some ghost had to activate the talisman qualities of Rodney’s cane somewhere along the line. The Beards had never told him that. Perhaps even the Beards had gone to “Thucie” to have Rodney’s crop activated.

“This court will reconvene in twenty-four hours if necessary,” Thucydides said and closed the proceedings. Most of the ghosts vanished, but Mary Beard stayed behind to speak to Nathan Greene.

“I’m afraid we’ve really upset the Adams family, Mr. Greene,” she said. “I mean, it was a sore spot in the family that neither John nor John Quincy could get reelected to a second term, but for them to be erased from the presidency all together—well, Henry and his brother Brooke, also a historian, pitched a fit, let me tell you, and Henry demanded to take my place as your spirit guide. I’m afraid you and your students will have to read
The Education of Henry Adams
to make it up to him.”

Nathan Greene nodded. It only seemed fair. He had forced the Beards’ theories on his students in exchange for Rodney’s riding crop, and although he was not a big fan of the Adams family, Nathan could see the legitimacy of their grievance. How in the world did Peggy Shippen ever get to the Graff House to meet Thomas Jefferson and not marry Benedict Arnold? What had they done? He didn’t know.

Mary Beard floated away. Henry Adams left Nathan Greene alone as well. He readied the portable for another trip to the past, bullet hole through the window and all. Well, that was one positive about a return trip—the window would be fixed. They were going to land in the field once again and find a bench to sit on and not move from that spot the whole day if possible, so that time could pass without their changing a thing.

After a time the sun was up and Nathan Greene heard a car in the parking lot a hundred yards off. He noticed his five students, dressed appropriately, all together, having come to school in one vehicle. They were like a team, he realized, wondering if he should rename the club “The History Team” instead of The History Channelers.

Henry Adams reappeared. Nathan Greene was surprised: Henry Adams did not seem angry, only wistful as he stood beside Nathan watching the students approach. Nathan remembered that Henry Adams had been a history teacher at Harvard.

“Mr. Greene,” Henry Adams said. “I once wrote, ‘A teacher affects eternity; he can never tell where his influence stops,’ but I did not really mean it in quite the way you accomplished it. Still, seeing the students reminds me of my classes at Cambridge.”

“Mr. Adams, I assure you I have no idea how we changed the life of your ancestors or Benedict Arnold.”

Henry Adams replied, “All experience is an arch, to build upon.”

“Chapter six,” Nathan Greene replied.

“You have read my work, Mr. Greene?”

“Of course, Mr. Adams.
The Education of Henry Adams
is a classic. I read it in college. ‘Young men have a passion for regarding their elders as senile’—I sometimes use that in class when my students think I’m an old man.”

Henry Adams brightened.

Flattery would get him somewhere with Henry Adams, he sensed. Thank the Lord I read his seminal work, Nathan Greene thought, as the students, adorned in their outfits from the day before, filed in the door. Adams won the Pulitzer for that book, he recalled.