11/22/63 Read online

  Anyway, he came in the door and I was in the bathroom peeing and I heard my mother say "Get out of here with that thing, youre not suppose to be here." The next thing was she start to scream. Then after that they was all screaming.

  There was more--three terrible pages--but it wasn't me who had to read them.

  5

  It was still a few minutes shy of six-thirty, but I found Al in the phone book and punched in his number without hesitation. I didn't wake him up, either. He answered on the first ring, his voice more like a dog's bark than human speech.

  "Hey, buddy, ain't you the early bird?"

  "I've got something to show you. A student theme. You even know who wrote it. You ought to; you've got his picture on your Celebrity Wall."

  He coughed, then said: "I've got a lot of pictures on the Celebrity Wall, buddy. I think there might even be one of Frank Anicetti, back around the time of the first Moxie Festival. Help me out a little here."

  "I'd rather show you. Can I come over?"

  "If you can take me in my bathrobe, you can come over. But I got to ask you straight up, now that you've had a night to sleep on it. Have you decided?"

  "I think I have to make another trip back first."

  I hung up before he could ask any more questions.

  6

  He looked worse than ever in the early light flooding in through his living room window. His white terrycloth robe hung around him like a deflated parachute. Passing up the chemo had allowed him to keep his hair, but it was thinning and baby-fine. His eyes appeared to have retreated even farther into their sockets. He read Harry Dunning's theme twice, started to put it down, then read it again. At last he looked up at me and said, "Jesus H. Christ on a chariot-driven crutch."

  "The first time I read it, I cried."

  "I don't blame you. The part about the Daisy air rifle is what really gets me. Back in the fifties, there was an ad for Daisy air rifles on the back of just about every goddam comic book that hit the stands. Every kid on my block--every boy, anyway--wanted just two things: a Daisy air rifle and a Davy Crockett coonskin cap. He's right, there were no bullets, even pretend ones, but we used to tip a little Johnson's Baby Oil down the barrel. Then when you pumped air into it and pulled the trigger, you got a puff of blue smoke." He looked down at the photocopied pages again. "Son of a bitch killed his wife and three of his kids with a hammer? Jee-zus."

  He just start laying on with it, Harry had written. I run back into the living room and there was blood all over the walls and white stuff on the couch. That was my mother's brains. Ellen, she was laying on the floor with the rocker-chair on top of her legs and blood coming out of her ears and hair. The TV was still on, it was this show my mom liked about Elerie Queen, who solve crimes.

  The crime that night had been nothing like the bloodlessly elegant problems Ellery Queen unraveled; it had been a slaughter. The ten-year-old boy who stopped to pee before going out trick-or-treating came back from the bathroom in time to see his drunken, roaring father split the head of Arthur "Tugga" Dunning as Tugga tried to crawl into the kitchen. Then he turned and saw Harry, who raised the Daisy air rifle and said, "Leave me alone, Daddy, or I'll shoot you."

  Dunning rushed at the boy, swinging the bloody hammer. Harry fired the air rifle at him (I could hear the ka-chow sound it must have made, even if I had never fired one myself), then dropped it and ran for the bedroom he shared with the now-deceased Tugga. His father had neglected to shut the front door when he came in, and somewhere--"it sounded 1000 miles away," the janitor had written--neighbors were shouting and trick-or-treating kids were screaming.

  Dunning would almost certainly have killed the remaining son as well, if he hadn't tripped on the overturned "rocker-chair." He went sprawling, got up, and ran down to his younger sons' room. Harry was trying to crawl under the bed. His father hauled him out and fetched him a lick on the side of the head that surely would have killed the boy if the father's hand hadn't slipped on the bloody handle; instead of splitting Harry's skull, the hammerhead had only caved in part of it above the right ear.

  I didnt pass out but almost. I kept crawling for under the bed and I hardly felt him hit my leg at all but he did and broke it in 4 diferent places.

  A man from down the block who had been out canvassing the neighborhood for candy with his daughter came running in at that point. In spite of the slaughter in the living room, the neighbor had the presence of mind to grab the ash shovel out of the tool bucket beside the kitchen woodstove. He slugged Dunning in the back of the head with it while the man was trying to turn the bed over and get at his bleeding, semiconscious son.

  Afterwards I went uncontchus like Ellen only I was lucky I woke up. The doctors said they might have to ampantate my leg but in the end they didnt.

  No, he had kept the leg and eventually become a janitor at Lisbon High School, known to generations of students as Hoptoad Harry. Would the kids have been kinder if they'd known the origin of the limp? Probably not. Although emotionally delicate and eminently bruisable, teenagers are short on empathy. That comes later in life, if it comes at all.

  "October of 1958," Al said in his harsh dog-bark voice. "Am I supposed to believe that's a coincidence?"

  I remembered what I'd said to the teenage version of Frank Anicetti about the Shirley Jackson story and smiled. "Sometimes a cigar is just a smoke and a coincidence is just a coincidence. All I know is that we're talking about another watershed moment."

  "And I didn't find this story in the Enterprise because?"

  "It didn't happen around here. It happened in Derry, upstate. When Harry was well enough to get out of the hospital, he went to live with his uncle and aunt in Haven, about twenty-five miles south of Derry. They adopted him and put him to work on the family farm when it became clear he couldn't keep up in school."

  "Sounds like Oliver Twist, or something."

  "No, they were good to him. Remember there were no remedial classes in those days, and the phrase 'mentally challenged' hadn't been invented yet--"

  "I know," Al said dryly. "Back then, mentally challenged means you're either a feeb, a dummy, or just plain addlepated."

  "But he wasn't then and he isn't now," I said. "Not really. I think mostly it was the shock, you know? The trauma. It took him years to recover from that night, and by the time he did, school was behind him."

  "At least until he went back for his GED, and by then he was middle-aged going on old." Al shook his head. "What a waste."

  "Bullshit," I said. "A good life is never wasted. Could it have been better? Yes. Can I make that happen? Based on yesterday, maybe I can. But that's really not the point."

  "Then what is? Because to me this looks like Carolyn Poulin all over again, and that case is already proved. Yes, you can change the past. And no, the world doesn't just pop like a balloon when you do it. Would you pour me a fresh cup of coffee, Jake? And get yourself one while you're at it. It's hot, and you look like you could use one."

  While I was pouring the coffee, I spied some sweet rolls. When I offered him one, he shook his head. "Solid food hurts going down. But if you're determined to make me swallow calories, there's a six-pack of Ensure in the fridge. In my opinion it tastes like chilled snot, but I can choke it down."

  When I brought it in one of the wine goblets I'd spied in his cupboard, he laughed hard. "Think that'll make it taste any better?"

  "Maybe. If you pretend it's pinot noir."

  He drank half of it, and I could see him struggling with his gorge to keep it down. That was a battle he won, but he pushed the goblet away and picked up the coffee mug again. Didn't drink from it, just wrapped his hands around it, as if trying to take some of its warmth into himself. Watching this, I recalculated the amount of time he might have left.

  "So," he said. "Why is this different?"

  If he hadn't been so sick, he would have seen it for himself. He was a bright guy. "Because Carolyn Poulin was never a very good test case. You didn't save her life, Al, only he
r legs. She went on to have a good but completely normal existence on both tracks--the one where Cullum shot her and the one where you stepped in. She never married on either track. There were no kids on either track. It's like . . ." I fumbled. "No offense, Al, but what you did was like a doctor saving an infected appendix. Great for the appendix, but it's never going to do anything vital even if it's healthy. Do you see what I'm saying?"

  "Yes." But I thought he looked a little peeved. "Carolyn Poulin looked like the best I could do, buddy. At my age, time is limited even when you're healthy. I had my eyes on a bigger prize."

  "I'm not criticizing. But the Dunning family makes a better test case, because it's not just a young girl paralyzed, terrible as something like that must have been for her and her family. We're talking about four people murdered and a fifth maimed for life. Also, we know him. After he got his GED, I brought him down to the diner for a burger, and when you saw his cap and gown, you paid. Remember that?"

  "Yeah. That's when I took the picture for my Wall."

  "If I can do this--if I can stop his old man from swinging that hammer--do you think that picture will still be there?"

  "I don't know," Al said. "Maybe not. I might not even remember it was there in the first place."

  That was a little too theoretical for me, and I passed it without comment. "And think about the three other kids--Troy, Ellen, and Tugga. Surely some of them will get married if they live to grow up. And maybe Ellen becomes a famous comedian. Doesn't he say in there that she was as funny as Lucille Ball?" I leaned forward. "The only thing I want is a better example of what happens when you change a watershed moment. I need that before I go monkeying with something as big as the Kennedy assassination. What do you say, Al?"

  "I say that I see your point." Al struggled to his feet. It was painful to watch him, but when I started to get up, he waved me back. "Nah, stay there. I've got something for you. It's in the other room. I'll get it."

  7

  It was a tin box. He handed it to me and told me to carry it into the kitchen. He said it would be easier to lay stuff out on the table. When we were seated, he unlocked it with a key he wore around his neck. The first thing he took out was a bulky manila envelope. He opened it and shook out a large and untidy pile of paper money. I plucked one leaf from all that lettuce and looked at it wonderingly. It was a twenty, but instead of Andrew Jackson on the face, I saw Grover Cleveland, who would probably not be on anyone's top ten list of great American presidents. On the back was a locomotive and a steamship that looked destined for a collision beneath the words FEDERAL RESERVE NOTE.

  "This looks like Monopoly money."

  "It's not. And there's not as much there as it probably looks like, because there are no bills bigger than a twenty. These days, when a fill-up can run you thirty, thirty-five dollars, a fifty raises no eyebrows even at a convenience store. Back then it's different, and raised eyebrows you don't need."

  "This is your gambling dough?"

  "Some. It's mostly my savings. I worked as a cook between '58 and '62, same as here, and a man on his own can save a lot, especially if he don't run with expensive women. Which I didn't. Or cheap ones, for that matter. I stayed on friendly terms with everybody and got close to nobody. I advise you to do the same. In Derry, and in Dallas, if you go there." He stirred the money with one thin finger. "There's a little over nine grand, best I can remember. It buys what sixty would today."

  I stared at the cash. "Money comes back. It stays, no matter how many times you use the rabbit-hole." We'd been over this point, but I was still trying to get it through my head.

  "Yeah, although it's still back there, too--complete reset, remember?"

  "Isn't that a paradox?"

  He looked at me, haggard, patience wearing thin. "I don't know. Asking questions that don't have answers is a waste of time, and I don't have much."

  "Sorry, sorry. What else have you got in there?"

  "Not much. But the beauty of it is that you don't need much. It was a very different time, Jake. You can read about it in the history books, but you can't really understand it until you've lived there for awhile." He passed me a Social Security card. The number was 005-52-0223. The name was George T. Amberson. Al took a pen out of the box and handed it to me. "Sign it."

  I took the pen, which was a promotional giveaway. Written on the barrel was TRUST YOUR CAR TO THE MAN WHO WEARS THE STAR TEXACO. Feeling a little like Daniel Webster making his pact with the devil, I signed the card. When I tried to give it back to him, he shook his head.

  The next item was George T. Amberson's Maine driver's license, which stated I was six feet five, blue eyes, brown hair, weight one-ninety. I had been born on April 22, 1923, and lived at 19 Bluebird Lane in Sabattus, which happened to be my 2011 address.

  "Six-five about right?" Al asked. "I had to guess."

  "Close enough." I signed the driver's license, which was your basic piece of cardboard. Color: Bureaucratic Beige. "No photo?"

  "State of Maine's years away on that, buddy. The other forty-eight, too."

  "Forty-eight?"

  "Hawaii won't be a state until next year."

  "Oh." I felt a little out of breath, as if someone had just punched me in the gut. "So . . . you get stopped for speeding, and the cop just assumes you are who this card claims you are?"

  "Why not? If you say something about a terrorist attack in 1958, people are gonna think you're talking about teenagers tipping cows. Sign these, too."

  He handed me a Hertz Courtesy Card, a Cities Service gas card, a Diners Club card, and an American Express card. The Amex was celluloid, the Diners Club cardboard. George Amberson's name was on them. Typed, not printed.

  "You can get a genuine plastic Amex card next year, if you want."

  I smiled. "No checkbook?"

  "I coulda got you one, but what good would it do you? Any paperwork I filled out on George Amberson's behalf would be lost in the next reset. Also any cash I put into the account."

  "Oh." I felt like a dummy. "Right."

  "Don't get down on yourself, all this is still new to you. You'll want to start an account, though. I'd suggest no more than a thousand. Keep most of the dough in cash, and where you can grab it."

  "In case I have to come back in a hurry."

  "Right. And the credit cards are just identity-backers. The actual accounts I opened to get them are going to be wiped out when you go back through. They might come in handy, though--you can never tell."

  "Does George get his mail at Nineteen Bluebird Lane?"

  "In 1958, Bluebird Lane's just an address on a Sabattus plat map, buddy. The development where you live hasn't been built yet. If anybody asks you about that, just say it's a business thing. They'll buy it. Business is like a god in '58--everybody worships it but nobody understands it. Here."

  He tossed me a gorgeous man's wallet. I gaped at it. "Is this ostrich?"

  "I wanted you to look prosperous," Al said. "Find some pictures to put in it along with your identification. I got you some other odds and ends, too. More ballpoint pens, one a fad item with a combination letter-opener and ruler on the end. A Scripto mechanical pencil. A pocket protector. In '58 they're considered necessary, not nerdy. A Bulova watch on a Speidel chrome expansion band--all the cool cats will dig that one, daddy. You can sort the rest out for yourself." He coughed long and hard, wincing. When he stopped, sweat was standing out on his face in large drops.

  "Al, when did you put all this together?"

  "When I realized I wasn't going to make it into 1963, I left Texas and came home. I already had you in mind. Divorced, no children, smart, best of all, young. Oh, here, almost forgot. This is the seed everything else grew from. Got the name off a gravestone in the St. Cyril's boneyard and just wrote an application letter to the Maine Secretary of State."

  He handed me my birth certificate. I ran my fingers over the embossed franking. It had a silky official feel.

  When I looked up, I saw he'd put another sheet of paper
on the table. It was headed SPORTS 1958-1963. "Don't lose it. Not only because it's your meal ticket, but because you'd have a lot of questions to answer if it fell into the wrong hands. Especially when the picks start to prove out."

  I started to put everything back into the box, and he shook his head. "I've got a Lord Buxton briefcase for you in my closet, all nicely battered around the edges."

  "I don't need it--I've got my backpack. It's in the trunk of my car."

  He looked amused. "Where you're going, nobody wears backpacks except Boy Scouts, and they only wear them when they're going on hikes and Camporees. You've got a lot to learn, buddy, but if you step careful and don't take chances, you'll get there."

  I realized I was really going to do this, and it was going to happen right away, with almost no preparation. I felt like a visitor to the London docks of the seventeenth century who suddenly becomes aware he's about to be shanghaied.

  "But what do I do?" This came out in a near bleat.

  He raised his eyebrows--bushy and now as white as the thinning hair on his head. "You save the Dunning family. Isn't that what we've been talking about?"

  "I don't mean that. What do I do when people ask me how I make my living? What do I say?"

  "Your rich uncle died, remember? Tell them you're piecing your windfall inheritance out a little at a time, making it last long enough for you to write a book. Isn't there a frustrated writer inside every English teacher? Or am I wrong about that?"

  Actually, he wasn't.

  He sat looking at me--haggard, far too thin, but not without sympathy. Perhaps even pity. At last he said, very softly, "It's big, isn't it?"

  "It is," I said. "And Al . . . man . . . I'm just a little guy."

  "You could say the same of Oswald. A pipsqueak who shot from ambush. And according to Harry Dunning's theme, his father's just a mean drunk with a hammer."