Time Enough for Love (71 page)

He quickly shuffled the paper money into two packs: 1916 and earlier, and post-1916, then without hesitating or stopping to count, he shoved the usable banknotes into a pocket, tore a page from the Montgomery Ward catalog in the cob box, packaged the useless bills so that they would not be spotted as money, dropped the package into the cesspool. Then he got out coins still in that secret pocket, checked their dates.

He noted that most of them carried damning mint dates—these followed the paper money. He wasted a full second admiring a proof-perfect replica buffalo nickel—such a pretty thing! He gave sober thought, at least two seconds, to a massive twenty-dollar gold piece. Gold was gold; its value would not be diminished if he melted it down or pounded it into a shapeless lump. But it was a hazard until he could deface it, as the next town clown might not be as friendly as this one. Down it went.

He felt lighthearted then. “Queer” money was a serious offense here, good for a number of years in prisons unpleasant and difficult to escape from. But lack of money was a correctable nuisance. Lazarus had considered arriving with no money at all, then had compromised by taking enough for a few days, to let him look around, reorient, get used to the customs and the lingo again, before having to scratch for a living—he had never considered trying to fetch enough to last ten years.

Never mind, this was more fun—and good practice for the much harder job of tackling an era he had never known. Elizabethan England—
that
would be a
real
challenge.

He counted what he had left: three dollars and eighty-seven cents. Not bad.

The blacksmith said, “Thought you’d fallen in. Feel better?”

“Much better. Thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it. Deacon Ames says you claim to be a mechanic.”

“I’m handy with tools.”

“Ever work in a smithy?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see your hands.” Lazarus let his palms be inspected. The blacksmith said, “City feller.”

Lazarus made no comment.

“Or maybe you got those soft hands in the cooler?”

“I suppose that could account for it. Thanks again for the use of your facilities.”

“Wait a jiffy. Thirty cents an hour and you do what I tell you—and I may fire you after the first hour.”

“Okay.”

“Know anything about automo
beels
?”

“Some.”

“See if you can get that Tin Lizzie moving.” The smith jerked his head toward the far side of his shop.

Lazarus went outside, looked over the Ford Runabout he had noted there earlier. Its turtleback had been removed, and a wooden box had been fitted to convert it into a pickup truck. Its wheel spokes showed signs of muddy roads, but it appeared to be in fair condition. He removed the front seat, checked the gasoline with a dipstick he found there—half a tank. He checked the water, added some from the shop’s pump, then opened the hood and inspected the engine.

The lead from magneto to coil box was not attached; he reconnected it.

He set the hand brake—decided that it was not very firm, so he blocked the wheels. Only then did he switch on ignition, open the throttle, and retard the spark.

He cautiously tucked his thumb by his fingers rather than around the crank—then brought the crank up high, pushed and spun it.

The motor racketed; the little car shook. He rushed to the driver’s side of the car, reached in and advanced the spark three notches, and eased the throttle to idle.

The smith was watching. “All right, turn it off and come give me some wind on the forge.” Neither of them mentioned the disconnected lead.

When the smith—Tom Heimenz—stopped to eat lunch, Lazarus walked two blocks to a grocery store he had passed, bought a quart of Grade-A raw milk—five cents, three cents deposit on the bottle—looked at a nickel loaf of bread, then decided to splurge on the big dime loaf; he had had no breakfast. He walked back to the blacksmith shop, and greatly enjoyed his lunch while he listened to Mr. Heimenz’s opinions.

He was a Progressive-Republican, but this time he was going to switch; Mr. Wilson had kept us out of war. “Not that he’s done the country any good otherwise; the high cost of living is worse than ever—and besides that, he’s pro-British. But that fool Hughes would have us in the European War overnight. It’s a hard choice. I’d like to vote for La Follette, but they didn’t have sense enough to nominate him. Germany’s going to win, and he knows it—and we’d look pretty silly trying to pull England’s chestnuts out of the fire.”

Lazarus agreed solemnly.

Heimenz told “Ted” to show up at seven the next morning. But just before sundown, almost three dollars richer and his stomach well padded with sausage, cheese, and crackers, Lazarus was beyond the city-limits sign and moving west. He had nothing against the town or the blacksmith, but he had not risked this trip to spend ten years in a country town at thirty cents an hour. He intended to stir around, recapture the flavor of the time.

Besides, Heimenz had been too inquisitive. Lazarus had not minded the inspection of his hands or the suggestion that he might be fresh out of jail, and the disconnected wire was a standoff, but when Lazarus had parried a question about his accent with generalities the smith had tried to pin him down with just
where
in Indian Territory had he lived as a child and
when
did his folks come down from Canada.

A larger community meant fewer personal questions and more opportunities to lay hands on more than thirty cents an hour without quite stealing it.

He had been walking an hour when he came across a stranded automobilist, an old country doctor plagued with a flat tire on a Maxwell. Lazarus dismounted a coal-oil sidelight and had the physician hold it while he patched the tube, replaced the tire and pumped it up, then refused a tip.

Dr. Chaddock said, “Red, do you know how to drive these gas buggies?” Lazarus admitted that he did.

“Well, son, since you’re headed west anyhow, what would you say to driving me to Lamar, then a shakedown on the couch in my waiting room, breakfast—and four bits to boot for your trouble?”

“I say Yes to all of it, Doctor—save that there’s no need to waste cash on me. I’m not broke.”

“Stuff and nonsense. Argue about it in the morning. I’m plumb tuckered out; this day started before daybreak. Used to be I’d wind the reins around the whip and nap until the mare got us home. But
these
things are stupid.”

After a breakfast of fried eggs, fried ham, fried potatoes, pancakes with sorghum and country butter, watermelon preserves, strawberry preserves, cream that would barely pour, and endless coffee saucered and blowed—the doctor’s housekeeper, his old-maid sister, had kept plying Lazarus, insisting that he wasn’t eating enough to keep a bird alive—he set out again, a dollar richer, much cleaner, and looking less like a hayseed, for spit and Shinola and elbow grease had improved the appearance of his shoes, and Miss Nettie had insisted on giving him some old clothes—“Might as well be you, Roderick, as the Salvation Army. Here, take this tie, too; Doc doesn’t wear it anymore. Look neat when you look for work, I always say—I do declare I won’t hardly open the screen door to give a man a handout if he don’t wear a necktie.”

He accepted it all, aware that she was right, aware also that Dr. Chaddock would have spent a bad night trying to sleep in his automobile while his sister worried had not Lazarus come along—accounts balanced. Miss Nettie made a neat bundle of his own clothes; he thanked her and promised to send them a postcard from Kansas City—then he abandoned the bundle in the first bushes he came to, feeling mild regret as those clothes would wear indefinitely despite the worn look built into them. But they were slightly anachronistic in cut and he had never expected to wear them longer than he had to—and a man on the road could not afford to look like a bindle stiff, which Miss Nettie probably didn’t know.

He found the railroad but avoided the depot. He posted himself at the north edge of town and waited. A passenger train and a freight headed south went by; then about ten o’clock a freight showed up headed north and still slowly gathering speed; Lazarus swung aboard. He made no effort not to be seen and let the brakeman shake him down for a dollar—a replica dollar; his authentic dollars were now under a bandage on the inside of his left thigh.

The brakeman warned him that there might be a railroad dick at the next stop—don’t give him more than a dollar—and there were Pinkertons in the K.C. yards if he was going that far…so don’t: those beauties would take his dollar and work him over anyhow. Lazarus thanked him and thought about asking what line this was—the Missouri Pacific?—but decided that it did not matter; it was headed north, and the brakeman’s advice let him know that it was going far enough to suit him.

After a long hot day, half of it in a gondola, half in an empty boxcar that was small improvement, Lazarus dropped off as the train passed through Swope Park. He was such a weary, dirty mess that he almost regretted not having bought a ticket. But he put it out of his thoughts, knowing that arriving in a city with no money could wind up as “thirty dollars or thirty days” instead of the milder tariff of a small town. As it was, he had almost six dollars, most of it “real” money.

He noted with delight that Swope Park looked familiar, despite the centuries. He hurried on through and found the end of the Swope Park streetcar line. While he waited for the infrequent weekday service, he paid a jitney for a triple-dip ice-cream cone and ate it with relish, peace in his soul. Another five cents and a long trolley ride with one transfer took him into downtown Kansas City. Lazarus enjoyed every minute and wished it were longer. How peaceful and clean and tree-shaded the city was! How gently bucolic!

He recalled another time he had visited his old hometown—what century?—sometime early in the Diaspora, he thought—when a citizen venturing out into its filthy canyon streets wore a steel helmet simulating a wig, a bulletproof vest and codpiece, spectacles that were armor, gloves that covered brass knucks, and other concealed and illegal weapons—but rarely went out into the streets; it was more discreet to stick to transportation pods and go outdoors only in the guarded suburbs—especially after dark.

But here and now guns were legal—and no one wore them.

He got off the streetcar at McGee, found the Y.M.C.A. by asking a policeman. There, for half a dollar, he was given a key to a small cubicle, a towel, and a small bar of soap.

*

After wallowing in a shower, Lazarus returned to the lobby, having noted both Bell and Home telephones at the desk, with a notice “Local Calls 5 cents—pay the Desk Clerk.” He asked to use the telephone books, found it in the Bell System book: “Chapman, Bowles, & Finnegan, attys at law”—R. A. Long Building, yes, that made sense. He searched again, found “Chapman Arthur J. atty,” with a Paseo address.

Wait till tomorrow? No harm in seeing if Justin had the correct answers. He slid a nickel to the desk clerk, asked for the Bell telephone.

“Number, please!”

“Central, please give me Atwater one-two-two-four.”

“Hello? Is this the home of Mr. Arthur J. Chapman, the attorney?”

“This is he.”

“Mr. Ira Howard told me to call you, Counselor.”

“Interesting. Who are you?”

“‘Life is short.’”

“‘But the years are long,’” the lawyer answered.

“‘Not “While the Evil Days come not.”’”

“Very well. What can I do for you, sir? Trouble?”

“No, sir. Will you accept an envelope to be delivered to the secretary of the Foundation?”

“Yes. Can you bring it to my office?”

“Tomorrow morning, sir?”

“Say about nine thirty. I must be in court by ten.”

“Thank you, sir; I’ll be there. Good night.”

“You are welcome. Good night to you, sir.”

There was a writing desk in the lobby, with another notice to see the desk clerk, along with a homily: “
Have you Written to Your Mother This Week?
” Lazarus asked for a sheet of paper and an envelope, saying (truthfully) that he wanted to write home. The clerk gave them to him. “That’s what we like to hear, Mr. Jenkins. Sure one sheet is enough?”

“If not, I’ll ask for another. Thanks.”

After breakfast (coffee and a doughnut, five cents) Lazarus located a stationery shop on Grand Avenue and invested fifteen cents in five envelopes that would nest in series, went back to the Y and prepared them, then delivered them by hand to Mr. Chapman—despite pursed-lip disapproval of Mr. Chapman’s secretary.

The outer envelope read: Secretary of the Ira Howard Foundation.

The next one read: To the Secretary of the Howard Families’ Association as of the year 2100
A.D.

The next one read: Please hold in the Families’ Archives for One Thousand Years. Inert atmosphere recommended.

The fourth read: To be opened by the Chief Archivist in Office in Gregorian year 4291.

The fifth envelope read: Please deliver on request to Lazarus Long or to any member of his Tertius Colony family.

Inside this envelope was the envelope from the Y.M.C.A. enclosing the note Lazarus had written the night before; the envelope had on it all the names of his Boondock family, with Lapis Lazuli and Lorelei Lee heading the list:

“4 August 1916 Greg.

“Darlings,

“I goofed. I arrived two days ago—three years early! But I still want you to pick me up exactly ten T-years after you dropped me, at the impact crater, i.e. 2 August
1926 Gregorian.

“Please assure Dora that this is
not her fault
. It is either mine, or Andy’s—or perhaps the instruments we had available then were not sufficiently accurate. If Dora wants to recalibrate (not necessary, as exactly ten T-years from drop remains the rendezvous), tell her to get eclipses of Sol by Luna for this ten years from Athene—I haven’t had time to look them up as I have just reached Kansas City.

“Everything is
absolutely all right
. I am in good health, have enough money, and am perfectly safe. I’ll write other and longer letters—better preserved, no time to have this one etched—using all the mail drops Justin suggested.

“Kiss everyone for me. Long letter follows.

“My undying love, “Ol’ Buddy Boy

“P.S. I hope it’s a boy and a girl—wouldn’t that be fun!”