The Third Circle
Chapter 25
Chapter 25
Claire and John didn't get out of Chicago until after midnight. They arrived in New York City the following evening at ten and got off the train at Grand Central Station.
They got their luggage and took a cab to the Waldorf, where John had already reserved a suite from Amarillo. They hadn't gotten used to traveling without credit cards, and the desk clerk at the incredibly posh hotel chastened them a bit when John took out his wallet to pay in advance.
"It is customary that guests pay for services upon departure," he said.
"It was a paradox of the 1940s," Claire would later write, "when by our standards, the levels of discrimination and paranoia went so deep, that such a conspicuous measure of honesty and trust would prevail. It almost seems, in retrospect, a veneer of false confidence, likely designed to veil the great aura of uncertainty that lay beneath it."
Their suite was $56 per night and faced south, with a terrace overlooking the whole of midtown and lower Manhattan. There were three rooms, furnished Georgian style, in quiet, stunning elegance. They ordered flowers and fruit and cheese from room service, and sat outside, relishing in the noise and lights. The powerful vitality and spirit of the city came up to greet them, bathe them, flow over them.
"We're a long ways from solitude now," John said, "even for the 1940s. What incredible energy is out there."
"Like it's coming up from beneath the streets," said Claire. "The spirit of American culture. This is where it came. Where it grew from. This little island."
John shivered, even though it wasn't cold. "It's pretty awesome. I still feel like an outsider."
"Me, too. We are, in a way. We don't belong here."
"Except that we do, because we're here."
"You're right. It's just so powerful. So much spirit. So much history. I mean, in Amarillo, it felt like our presence had an impact. Here, we're just grains of sand."
They became silent and pensive for a few moments. Then John said, "Okay. Here's something. How come whenever we transport back to a place we've been before, we don't ever run into ourselves?"
"Hm?"
"Take Danny's farm. The mesquite tree. We left on September whatever it was in 1946, went to 1976, and came back to the same day in 1946 that we had left. The Genie said the watches aren't calibrated real close for precise times of the day, so how come, for example, when we transported back to 1946, we didn't see ourselves driving up in the Olds to leave?"
"Well, what I've thought about, which is sort of related, is this: could we go five days back to Amarillo now and find ourselves lying in the room at the Charlotte?"
"Right. It's another side of the same thing."
"How many pasts are there, I wonder? Potentially."
"Probably lots."
"Let's
ask the staring man," Claire chuckled, "if he ever shows up
again. Meantime, I'm exhausted. Let's go to bed."
They woke up early, filled with excitement at exploring the city. They went down to the hotel restaurant and had breakfast and then bought a two-day pass on a double decked sight-seeing bus that they could get on and off wherever they liked. Claire brought along her Kine and several rolls of film.
They got off first at the Rockefeller Center. Radio City Music Hall was dazzling. They picked up a schedule of live radio shows they could get tickets for. They got off the bus again at the Empire State Building and rode the elevator to the top. They walked over to Macy's, and from there to Grand Central Station, found the post office, and checked for mail. Clara Ingram Jennings' social security card and Oklahoma driver's license had arrived.
They hopped on the bus again and rode all the way down to Battery Park. They bought a New York Times for three cents, had coffee in a sidewalk cafe facing the park, and traded sections of the paper to read.
"Boy, these strikes are a big deal," John commented.
"Yeah, they are," said Claire.
"Hey, check this. A new study just out. One in three families fail in the United States."
"You're kidding."
"Nope. 1944 had set an all time record for divorces per capita, and 1945 topped that record with another twenty-five percent increase. More divorces filed than marriage licenses issued."
"I thought these were the good old days of real family values. Maybe it was the war or something."
"Could be," he said.
"Well, we can help the situation a bit by buying a marriage license. I'm a legal person now."
He leaned across the table and kissed her. "We'll do it," he said.
"Hey," said Claire, reading. "Maybe we should go see Harry Truman."
"Where is he?" John asked.
"Oh, in Washington, but it says here he walked six blocks to church yesterday morning. We could probably just hang out around the White House and see him because he goes for walks all the time. I always thought he was neat."
"Pretty humble, too, as I recall. Not a typical Presidential quality."
"Nobody around here appreciates him yet, I don't think. The kindest thing I've heard about him is that he's doing his best, a 'victim of circumstance.'"
"Aren't we all?"
"I don't think so. Anyway, he blew away the congregation at the First Baptist church. They didn't know he was coming."
"Probably put the minister off stroke, too."
"It says the theme of the sermon was 'The Silver Lining.' Romans 8:28. 'And we know that all things work together for good for those who love God.'"
"I believe that's true," smiled John.
"It is," said Claire.
They drank more coffee, finished the paper, and then took a ferry and toured the Statue of Liberty, which made Claire cry. When they got back, they walked up to the financial district and bought hot dogs from a street vendor in front of the medieval looking Trinity Church at the end of Wall Street. They took the church tour, saw the graves in the churchyard of Alexander Hamilton and Albert Gallatin, the first two Secretaries of the Treasury, and learned that George Washington had been inaugurated as president just down the street at Federal Hall.
"Hm," John said, "that might be even a better show than the ones at Radio City Music Hall."
"What's that?"
"George Washington's inauguration."
They looked at each other and smiled.
"Why not?" John asked.
"Cause we'd be naked," Claire giggled, "and it was in the winter. That's why!"
John laughed. "Take a little planning. That's all."
"Awesome thought," she said.
They walked to Federal Hall, saw a statue of Washington, and read on the plaque that he had in fact been inaugurated not in the winter, but on April 30th. They discussed the possibilities as they walked up through the government center.
They went into the New York Bureau of Licenses and applied for a marriage license. They had to make up a few things on the application, such as their fathers' places and dates of birth. They paid a dollar fifty, and the clerk said the license would be mailed to them. They used the Waldorf address. They embraced and kissed outside on the steps. "We're legal again," smiled Claire.
"Somewhat," smiled John. "I love you." He kissed her again.
"I love you, too, Sweetheart."
They walked to Little Italy, and then to Greenwich Village. They bought some clothes, and books and magazines, and Claire bought some jewelry. They took a cab back to the hotel. Claire called the concierge and had some of their clothes taken out to be cleaned and pressed, and then they took a nap.
They had room service dinner, and then took a cab to the Public Library. They found a book, published in 1898 by William Baker, called Washington After the Revolution, and read about the inauguration of the first President. Claire suggested that if they were going to do it, the ideal place in which to transport to 1789 would be a clothing store, and the best time to transport would be late at night, when the store was closed. So, they looked through the oldest American magazines and newspapers in the library. They found what they were looking for in The New York Weekly Journal, a small narrative advertisement describing a clothing company "specializing in finery for ladies and gentlemen." It was near the corner of Broadway and Liberty Street, in the financial district, next to what would one day be the World Trade Center.
They left the library and got another cab to check out the location. Occupying the address where the clothier had been a century and a half earlier was an unpretentious cigar and magazine store with an office above. It was closed. They taxied back up Broadway, and stopped to take in a late movie, the New York premier of The Kid from Brooklyn, with Danny Kaye and Virginia Mayo, in which a milkman turns into a prizefighter.
The next morning, they got dressed in their Rodgers and Downs clothes, and after breakfast they taxied to the cigar store on Liberty Street. A couple of customers were browsing at the magazine rack. The racks and glass display cases were filled with cigarette cases and lighters, elaborate snuff boxes, pipes, pipe holders, novelty items, magazines, and paperback books. Peggy Lee sang "I Don't Know Enough about You" from a radio somewhere. Behind the counter was a nearly bald, short man in his sixties. They walked over to him. "Good morning," said John. "We'd like to speak to the owner."
"I'm the owner," said the man. "What are you selling?"
"Nothing," smiled Claire. "You own this property as well as the store?"
"I do," he nodded suspiciously.
"We'd like to buy it," Claire said.
The man's dark and bushy eyebrows went up. "It's not for sale," he said politely.
"We know that," said John. "Have you owned it a long time?"
"Since 1921," the man said.
"That's a long time," Claire said. "You've put a lot into this."
"Yes, I have," the man said.
"Suppose it was for sale," John said. "What do you think would be a fair offer?"
"Well," said the man, "Fair for one person isn't always fair for another."
"That's true," said Claire.
"I'm going to retire in another four years. Got a small little place out on Long Island. Got it all planned out. You can go up the street here and buy a cigar store like this. The old fella' up there got twelve thousand dollars for one smaller than this just last month. I hope to get fifteen in four years. This here's a busy corner. Business kept on right through the Depression. These guys kept coming in here right along to get their financial news, looking for a way back in, you know what I'm saying?"
John nodded. "Let me have one of those Haddon Halls there," he said, pointing at a cigar under the glass and taking out his wallet.
"That's fifteen cents," the man said, taking a cigar out of the box. "You got good taste."
John gave him a dollar. "I've got to tell you, Mr... what was your name?"
"Kline. Jack Kline."
John offered his hand. "John Banister. My wife, Claire."
"Pleased," said Mr. Kline, shaking hands.
"We're more interested in the location than the store," said John, looking out the window. "I'd say it's worth about twenty thousand to us. What goes on upstairs?"
The eyebrows went up again. "Got a couple of brokers in there now. Very quiet. Twenty thousand dollars, you say?"
"Thirty thousand," said Claire. "That would be our top offer."
Jack Kline's eyebrows went even higher. He stroked his chin. "Well, you know, that's not a bad price. Doubt the bank would give you anywhere near that."
"Oh," said John, "It would be a cash deal. Certified check. We could be back this afternoon if you had the deed. Like to get you on your way to Long Island."
Jack Kline looked around the store. "I ... I should talk to my wife, first. Can I call you?"
"Sure," said John. "We're at the Waldorf. Banister. With one 'n.'"
Kline wrote it down. Perspiration had broken out on his forehead. "I'll get your change," he said. "For the cigar."
"Keep it," said John, picking up a book of matches from a tray on the counter. "It was nice meeting you."
"Good-bye," Claire smiled, offering her hand. "I hope the two of you enjoy your retirement."
"Thank you," said Kline, shaking her hand and John's. "Thank you very much."
They walked outside. "Well, that looks distinguished," Claire giggled as John lit his cigar. He immediately coughed and dropped it down a grate as they crossed the street and walked into an imposing, granite bank. They asked to see a bank officer, and opened a joint checking account with a transfer of seventy-five thousand dollars from the First Texas State Bank and Trust in Amarillo. John took out thirty thousand so he'd have more cash to make some bets.
"One more little gambling blitz should get us enough capital to leave Walker Creek on firm ground," he said as they left the bank.
"Well, there's sure a lot of capital around here," said Claire. "The New York Stock Exchange is right over there somewhere."
"Let's go take a look," said John.
They took the guided tour of the exchange. They left with a short list of stocks for their future portfolio, including General Electric, Ford, Columbia Broadcasting, Chrysler, Pepsi Cola, and IBM. Feeling lonesome for their cat, they put Ralston Purina on the list, too.
They took a taxi to 43rd Street and 5th Avenue to shop for some more clothes, and Claire got sidetracked at the International Center of Photography. John browsed through book stores. They connected again at Radio City and walked back to the hotel, showered together, and took a long nap.
The phone woke them up at four o'clock. It was Jack Kline, accepting their offer. He said he would have the deed prepared and inventory done by noon the next day. They agreed to meet him at the store a little past twelve.
They took a cab to the Imperial Theater on Broadway, had a light supper at an elegant Italian restaurant next door, and then went to see Irving Berlin's Annie Get Your Gun. For Claire, the nostalgia was overwhelming when Ethel Merman sang "There's No Business Like Show Business." She couldn't stop crying. "It's really her," she kept whispering.
The next morning, Claire worked on her journal, and John began scouting for places to book bets. He started in the posh hotel barber shop. A wiry man named Harrison ran the shoe shine stand. John got a shine, and asked Harrison if he knew where he could place a two thousand dollar bet on a heavyweight fight the following night between the champion Joe Lewis and Tami Mauriello.
"Yes, sir," Harrison said, "I can take care of that right here for you."
John placed the fight bet, got a receipt, and gave Harrison an extra twenty, and asked if he knew where he could bet on other things.
"I can do that for you too, yes sir," Harrison said. "Get you action on anything you want. Loans too, if you want. There's a lot of people come right in here in this here barber shop. Ol' Mr. Mike and Mr. Tony even in here all the time. Frank Costello come in here every day. Gots him a room right in the hotel. I even places his bets for him sometimes. He likes them horses."
"What about numbers?" John asked.
"No numbers. I don't do no numbers no more, no sir. Young kid come around here if you want to bets on the numbers. Name is Lennie. He be by here pretty shortly. Always come by here 'bout this time in fact. Hangs out for an hour or two. No, sir, I don't do no numbers no more."
John said he would like to know about a few other bookmakers as well, and gave Harrison another twenty dollars to write down the names and addresses of a half dozen establishments, all within several blocks.
Lennie came in just as John was finishing his shine. He was a dark, intense kid of sixteen, with short-cropped black hair. John watched as he did business quietly in the corner of the shop with a few men who came in. Harrison introduced them. Something in Lennie's spirit captured John. The eyes were riveting, deep and wise as those of an old man. John bet two thousand dollars, which was the limit on the numbers that Lennie ran. He picked the number 578. He hadn't done any research on numbers, and had pulled 578 out of the air. Lennie gave him a slip of paper and told John to write the number down on the upper left hand corner, with his name beside it. John tipped the kid fifty dollars, which shocked him, but he was very appreciative.
John checked out the six places on Harrison's list. Two were other barber shops, two were bars, one was a pool hall, and one was a tattoo parlor. In each place, using different names, he bet three thousand on the heavyweight championship fight, and an additional two thousand that Lewis would knock out Mauriello in the first round. He had to take, on the average, three to eight odds on the fight, but the first round knockout brought the bets to better than an even up average.
He got back to the hotel around eleven. He and Claire took a quick shower, put on some of the new clothes they had bought, and took a taxi to their new bank in the financial district. On the way, John told Claire about Harrison and the bets he had placed and about Lennie.
"This kid, Lennie, is really extraordinary," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I'm just really drawn to him."
"Be careful. Maybe it's him."
"I considered that. But I don't think so. This kid is really different."
"Helena Wheaton was 'really different.'"
"Well, I'm not going to walk around afraid that everybody is him, especially when we don't even know who he is or what he wants. This is our day in the sun, remember?"
"I just want you to be careful. This gambling is kind of scary. This isn't like Angelo's, you know, with those lightweights from L.A. This is big league stuff. There might not be a shoe stretcher handy if you get in trouble."
John smiled. "It'll be okay." He leaned over and kissed the worried furrow between her eyebrows until it went away. "As long as we spread things out and take some losses, it will be okay. I've got a plan."
At the bank, they got a certified check for thirty thousand dollars, payable to Jack Kline, and walked across the street to the cigar store. There was a 'Closed for Inventory' sign in the window, and the shades were drawn. They knocked, and Kline let them in. He had brought his wife, Denise, a plump and stern woman, much larger than he, and an attorney named Edgar Sarnoff, who had prepared a bill of sale, a typed inventory list, and the deed. Fifteen minutes later, Claire and John were in the cigar and magazine business.
"What'll we do with all this stuff?" Claire asked, after a weeping Mr. Kline and his wife and attorney had left. "We should have given it to Kline to get rid of."
"Wish we could get rid of the perishables and ship all the rest of it back home. This stuff would be worth a fortune."
"Hmm. How would we do that?"
"I keep having these crazy fantasies of trying to figure out a way to go back home, to where our house will be, and hiring someone to bring in a steam shovel to dig a huge hole where we can bury things. Lots of things."
She started giggling. "Wrapped in thousands of feet of plastic."
"Seriously, we don't have to clean out any of this inventory. We'll only need the place for a few days, probably. We can get a property management company to rent it out and run it like it is. Turn it over to Walker Creek Enterprises. Hey, look." John walked over to the magazine rack and picked up a copy of Incredible Tales of Escape.
"Ah," said Claire. "It's the same one we have. The new one isn't out yet."
"We bought it around the 20th, so it will probably be a few more days. Well, at least we won't miss the issue now that we're in the business."
There was a small storeroom in back that had been cleaned out except for a cot, a rickety old desk, two easy chairs with the springs showing, and a cardboard box filled with old order forms. Off the room was a toilet, and also a door opening out to an alley in back.
They locked up and took a walk down to the waterfront. Both the mariner's and trucker's strikes had just ended, and there was an enormous bustle of activity at all the docks, and lots of police around securing the acres of freight that lay all along East River Drive. Claire and John ate hot dogs and walked clear down around the tip of the island, and sat on a bench in a little park on West Street and watched the sun go down over New Jersey across the Hudson.
They got back to the hotel a little past nine. As they passed through the lobby, they could hear an orchestra in the ballroom playing "I'm a Big Girl Now." Claire glanced up and saw a beautiful young woman, fresh as springtime, leaning against the railing of the mezzanine. She wore an elegant, pure white dress and long black gloves. She was looking down over the lobby, and then she looked at Claire. They exchanged smiles. Claire wondered who she was, and what she thought about her life.
In their room, Claire picked up the phone and requested a wake-up call at three A.M. They listened to the radio, browsed through some of the books they had bought, and finally fell asleep.
Claire awoke just before the wake-up call, and kissed John awake. They pulled some casual clothes on, brushed their hair, and went downstairs and got a cab to the cigar store. John locked the front door from inside, and they went in the back room and turned on a light.
"Ready?" John asked.
"Ready when you are," Claire said, taking her clothes off. John undressed too, and they folded their clothes and put them, with their wedding rings, on the desk.
John sat his time watch for April 23rd, 1789. He took Claire's hand and kissed her. "Away we go," he said, and pressed the lever.
It was still pitch black when the darkness passed. They crouched down, holding hands, on a cold and bumpy stone floor, listening for any signs of life, but there was only silence in the darkness. They rose slowly, and gingerly began creeping in the direction of the street. They kept stubbing their toes on metal things on the floor, and rows of clothes brushed against their naked bodies.
"Find a light switch," Claire whispered.
"There isn't any electricity yet," said John.
"I know. I'm just kidding!"
"They have to watch TV by candlelight," said John.
"Funny," she said.
They bumped against a coarse wooden wall, and, taking care not to get splinters, followed it with their hands to a door. John fumbled with a strange metal hasp and creaked the door open.
It was a little lighter in the front room because of the windows. They stood in the doorway a moment so their eyes could grow accustomed to the light, and then ventured into the room. They found an oil lamp and some wooden matches on a counter, and carried them into the back room and closed the door. Claire lit matches and held them until John could figure out how to unscrew the chimney. Claire lit the mantle, and a pale yellow light filled the room. John replaced the chimney and set the lamp on a table by the wall.
The room was far larger than the one they had left, extending nearly two hundred feet back past where the alley would later be. The metal contraptions on which they had stubbed their toes were iron clothes rack pedestals. Rows of them filled the area of the room in which they stood, and along one wall were deep shelves filled with all sorts of clothing accessories. In the back area of the room were a maze of work stations with flat wooden tables, with an odd array of strange looking machines lined up along one wall.
"What are those?" Claire asked, taking the lamp and walking back to them. John watched her naked form, eerie in the light of the oil lamp she carried. "They're spinning machines. For silk, probably. And wool. And here's a power loom. They don't just sell clothes here. What a trip!"
"Well, let's find something that fits. I'm freezing." He started delving through the hanging garments. Claire joined him. It took nearly an hour to figure things out, because the sizes were numbered differently.
"I wish we'd gone to a Colonial wax museum or something before we came," said Claire. "I don't know what all this stuff is supposed to look like."
She finally found a linen plaited Watteau gown with ruffled sleeves that she liked. It was white with a green and gold sort of floral print. It seemed the right size, but it was open in front, and too baggy. She poked around on the accessory shelves and found a hoop and petticoat for underneath.
John was getting exasperated. "I'm not sure what goes with what," he said. "You're lucky yours is simple."
Claire helped him sort through the clothes, and he ended up with tight breeches that buttoned on the side, a long, green satin waistcoat with flared cuffs and huge buttons and gold embroidery.
"What kind of shirt are you supposed to wear with this damned thing?" He asked.
"Try this," said Claire. "Here. Take it off." She folded a white cravat around his neck and tied it in front. He put the coat back on. "Oh, cool!" she said, clapping her hands. "That's it!" She handed him a pair of white silk stockings. "Here you go," she smiled.
He put them on. They took their time watches off, and John put his in a pocket of the waistcoat. Claire didn't have any pockets, so she fastened hers on her ankle.
"Oh oh. No shoes," said John.
"Shit. And my feet are cold. Well, there's probably a cobbler up the street. Let's see if we can find some money."
"I feel so weird!" John said.
"You look great!"
"So do you." He smiled and kissed her.
John turned the lamp down and they walked back out to the front room. A pendulum clock hanging on the wall read five-thirty. There were traces of dawn outside. Church bells rang somewhere.
"We better hurry and get out of here," said John.
"Oh, wow," said Claire. "Here we are." There was a display of powdered wigs on wooden mannequin heads on a counter along the back wall. They experimented, and found two that fit. There was a floor length mirror on the back wall, and they stood before it, staring at themselves.
"Too much," whispered John.
"You can say that again."
"There must be a cash register or something," John said, looking around.
"They ..."
"... I know, haven't been invented yet. But, look." He pointed at a blue metal calculating machine on a counter near the door. Beneath it were what appeared to be cash drawers, but they were empty. They took the lamp and got down on their hands and knees and began exploring the shelves under the counter for a hiding place. They heard footsteps outside. John shielded the lamp, and they held their breath. The steps passed.
"Bingo," whispered Claire, producing a cloth sack. She stood up, pulled the draw string open, and dumped about two dozen gold coins on to the counter.
"I'll bet these are priceless," said John.
"Probably not around here," said Claire. "But enough to buy shoes, maybe."
John tried to read words on the coins, but it was too dark. "Shillings, maybe. I wonder how much this is."
"I don't know, but this is real stealing, you know. We won't be able to pay these people back."
"It looks like a sweat shop back there, anyway. Slave labor. The owner probably deserves the hit."
"Oh, so, who are you? Robin Hood?"
"I'm just kidding! I'll leave them a note with the specs for internal combustion, or the electric motor, or electromagnetism or something. That'll square it."
She chuckled. "Well, before we leave, it might be a good idea to figure out how to get back in here. They'll know someone broke in, and security might be tight."
"Well, we could just walk in and transport. If they're closed, we may just have to break a window. I wish I'd thought to leave a key to our cigar shop stashed in the alley somewhere. Then we wouldn't have to get back in here. Should we go back and do that?"
"I don't want to get dressed again. Plus, there isn't time, now, unless we wait another night. I guess if you leave them the blueprint for the industrial revolution, they can deal with a broken window."
"Speaking of keys, I wonder if we can even get out of here. Maybe we're locked in."
They were. The front door had a key hole, and no other locking mechanism on the inside. They went back behind the counter and searched for a key, but couldn't find one. They went into the back room again. There was a large door in the back, but it was padlocked. There was a desk with papers in an alcove by the spinning machines. John searched the drawers, and found a key in a small wooden box filled with fancy buttons. Under the box was a stack of currency.
"We'll bring back what we don't spend," said John, stuffing it in a pocket of the waistcoat.
They walked to the front, and John successfully unlocked and relocked the front door. "At least we save them a broken window," he said.
Claire found shears and a spool of woolen fiber in the back. She found a bolt of cotton, and cut swaths from it, and then wrapped John's feet and her own, tied the cloth at their ankles, and trimmed it. As she was finishing, they were startled by a succession of blasts of what sounded like monstrous gun shots from outside. By the time they had made their way to the front door, the blasts had stopped, followed by the tolling of a multitude of church bells. They left the shop, locking the door behind them, and walked out into the street. The sun was coming up.
There were several three and four story commercial looking brick buildings across the street where the bank would be, and further down were some brick and stone houses with steeply pitched gabled roofs. Beyond that was an area of rubble that looked as though there had been a huge fire.
"My God," said Claire. "There's been a disaster of some kind."
"Yeah, the Revolution," said John.
"Oh, duh. That's why we're here, right?"
John giggled. "'Hark, hear the canons,'" he said.
"Canons. Hey, I'll bet that's what those loud noises were."
They walked across the cobblestone street down toward the church. It loomed quietly, a different church than the one they had toured in 1946. There was a sudden racket, and several ducks came scrambling around the corner, with three dogs right behind them. A man shouted something, a muffled sound in the distance. The ducks saw Claire and John and scattered, disappearing between buildings.
They walked on. "Wall Street is still here ... already here," said Claire. They walked a bit further and then looked west, down Rector Street. It seemed to be a commercial area.
"Maybe there's a cobbler," said John.
They turned right and passed a fish market advertising lobsters, oysters, and crabs. It was closed, but next door was Bartholomew's Grog Shop, which was open. Through the Dutch doors they could see three men drinking at a bar, and John ventured in. The men turned to look at him. Claire stayed back in the doorway.
"I say," said John. "Anyone know of a cobbler nearby?"
"Looks like you'd be needing one, lad," said a fat and ruddy man behind the bar.
"You're right at that," said one of the customers, pointing at John's feet. "Lose your boots, did you?"
"I did that," laughed John. "Bit of a mishap, I'm afraid. Up from Philadelphia for the festivities."
"Why," said another man, "how about the lady? Does she be needin' shoes, too?" He pointed at Claire's feet.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," said Claire, smiling and walking into the tavern. She lifted her dress from the floor.
"What sort of mishap was this?" Asked the fat man, laughing.
"Well," said Claire, "it was a curious thing. We were walking along the harbor, right down there, and our feet were sore from walking such a long way, and we took our shoes off to freshen up our toes and a wave came up and took our shoes away."
"Just like that," said John. "This is very embarrassing."
The men broke into hearty laughter.
"The old Dutchman, right up there on Barclay Street," said the bartender. He pointed. "He'll get you well shod, he will. Rattle his door hard. He's got a bad hangover, no doubt."
The men laughed again.
"Philadelphia, eh," one of the men said. "Here to see the General take the oath?"
"We are," said John.
"I'll drink to that," said another of the men, raising a stein.
"Long live the General," said another.
The men drank.
"Obliged," said John. He saluted them. For some reason, it seemed the appropriate thing to do.
They left and walked up Trinity Street to Barclay, passing occasional brick residences, some of which would qualify as mansions. The area was lush with gardens, fruit trees, and huge elms. They got to Barclay, and Roth's Bootlery was on the corner, closed. They did as the bartender had instructed and rattled the door. After a few moments, a stooping, craggy man in a nightshirt came and opened the door a crack and peered out at them.
"What's this?" He asked.
"We need some shoes," Claire smiled. Lost ours in the sea.
"Oh, well, then, you better come inside."
The sizes were English, and Claire and John stumbled a bit when he asked what they wore. He seemed amiable about their ignorance, however, and fitted John in a pair of black boots with buckles, and Claire in a pair of low heeled white slippers.
John handed the man one of the larger notes from his stack of currency, and the man went into the back of the shop and returned with some change. They thanked him and walked back toward Wall Street.
Claire had been right that the shots they had heard were cannon, and along the way they heard more. The sound sent flocks of odd looking pigeons across the sky. A colorful crowd was already gathering in front of Federal Hall, a different Federal Hall than the one they had seen in 1946 with the statue in front. It was a two story brick building with a large portico at the second floor, and an ornate spire on top. Red velvet was draped on the top of the columns of the portico, and a crimson canopy hung above it. The balcony had three windows behind it with crimson curtains. The center one stood open. Behind the low railing sat a red arm chair and a low table.
"Is it going to be up there?" Claire asked a woman holding a child, pointing at the portico where others seemed to be looking.
"Oh, yes, Ma'am," she said. "Isn't it grand? Oh, my, what a day this will be."
"What time is it expected?" asked John.
"Oh, they're not sure. Afternoon, no doubt, but I came here early to be sure we could see. There are such crowds already all the way up South Street to Cherry. He'll be coming down that way."
"Have you ever seen him before?" Claire asked.
"Oh, yes, Ma'am, a week ago, when he arrived. And what a spectacle it was! And oh, the bands and crowds of people, all here to thank him. It was such a heartening thing, I declare. And he so humble and all. I swear."
"I'm famished," John whispered to Claire. "Look. There's another grog shop. Let's see if we can get some breakfast."
"Good idea," said Claire. "I want a double cappuccino and a bagel. Nice talking with you," she said to the woman.
They went into the tavern, and had to wait for a table. After they were seated, a man in a dirty apron brought them smoked fish, wonderful fresh baked bread, some boiled potatoes, and mugs of steaming strong coffee.
"Let's be very careful," said Claire when they finished. "I have a strange feeling that our friend is going to show up."
"It's funny you should mention that," said John. "I was just thinking about him."
They stood back in the shade of the building where they had breakfast, across the street from Federal Hall, with an excellent view of the portico over the heads of the crowd. They felt taller than normal somehow. They considered walking up toward Cherry Street, where, they had gathered from overheard conversations, George Washington was staying, but the crowds in that direction were formidable, and Claire and John were a bit uncomfortable milling around, so they stayed where they were. Many in the crowd were attended by African slaves, and Claire and John saw a few Native Americans among the spectators.
"I wonder what the Indians and Black people are thinking about all this," Claire whispered.
"They're probably thinking a variety of things," John said.
"I'm getting depressed. I don't think I like it here. I hate crowds anyway."
Sometime past noon they heard shots being fired, and a band playing in the distance. Then a marching band approached coming up Wall Street from the east, followed by a parade of militiamen. Behind them was a ponderous coach, drawn by six horses. They could see people inside, and stood on their tiptoes as the coach drew closer. It was flanked by more militiamen and police, holding back the frenzied throngs of people who were trying to get closer. It stopped parallel with Claire and John.
"There he is!" they both whispered at once. They could see him through the window, sitting in the back seat. He turned and glanced out through the rear window of the coach at another smaller coach that stopped right behind. Then he stepped out of the coach on the other side, momentarily lost from their view, but then he reappeared in front of the coach just behind the horses and looked across the street in their direction and waved. Claire waved back frantically. For one suspended moment, her eyes and those of the General met. He smiled. John glanced at her and saw that tears were on her cheeks. He put his arm around her and waved back at George Washington.
Washington wore a three-cornered hat, a rather plain brown suit with silver buttons, and white silk stockings like John's. At his side, he wore a sword. He waved again at the crowd, and bowed several times, and then, flanked by dignitaries, he disappeared into the hall.
"Unbelievable," John whispered. He realized he was trembling.
Claire wiped her cheeks. "Look at me," she said. "I can't believe I'm so ... wow. Are you sure this is really happening?"
"I think so."
"He doesn't look quite like in his pictures. Wish I had a camera."
Their conversation was nearly drowned out by the cheers from the crowd, cheers that continued without pause for another three or four minutes, and then rose to a roar as a man stepped out on the second floor portico.
"Who's that?" Claire asked John.
"I don't know," he said.
"That's John Adams," said a man next to Claire.
"You're kidding," she said.
"Beg pardon?" the man asked Claire.
"Oh, nothing," Claire said. "Thank you. I just ... it's all so exciting."
The man smiled and tipped his hat.
George Washington stepped out on the portico behind Adams and sat in the chair. The portico was filled with people now. George Washington stood up again, somewhat awkwardly, and walked to the railing, and the crowd fell suddenly silent. Washington turned, and another man stepped to face him.
"Who's that?" Claire whispered to the man next to her.
"It's Robert Livingston." the man whispered
"Who's Robert Livingston?"
"The Chancellor of New York," the man answered impatiently. "Shhh!"
A short man stood between Washington and Livingston, holding a large Bible that rested on a red pillow. Washington put his hand on it. Livingston spoke, and his voice carried across the hushed crowd. "Do you solemnly swear that you will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of your ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States?"
"I solemnly swear," said George Washington. He bowed down to kiss the Bible.
Livingston turned to the crowd. "It is done," he said, and then he shouted, "Long live George Washington, President of the United States!"
A cry rose from the crowd, and then the cheers seemed to shake the ground where Claire and John stood. More canons boomed at the harbor, and a hundred church bells rang, but the sounds were dwarfed by the applause and shouts of the crowd.
Washington stepped to the railing and bowed again and again to the crowd, and then turned and disappeared through the curtained door back into the chamber behind. The other dignitaries followed, and the door was closed.
"That's it?" Claire asked. "Where's the speech?"
"He'll give it inside," said the man next to her, "to the House and Senate."
"The public's not allowed?" Claire asked.
"There's no room in there for the public," said the man.
"Claire turned to John. "Well, that's a bummer," she said.
John nodded his agreement. "The public gets aced out from the gate," he whispered. "What do you say let's get out of here? I can't stand looking at all these slaves."
"I wish we could get a message to him."
"To George?"
"Yes."
"What would you tell him?"
I don't know. Free the slaves. Let the natives alone."
"They'd lock you up in a loony bin. How about, 'don't let politics replace the Constitution," or "stay clear of entangling alliances?'"
"Wow. That's pretty good."
"I know. It's the advice he gave in his Farewell Address."
"God, you're such a smart ass!"
"I know. It's true, though. I read it somewhere."
They made their way through the crowd and wandered down to the tip of the island where Battery Park would one day be. Sailing vessels dotted the harbor. They sat on a rock.
"Looks empty without the Statue of Liberty," Claire said. "There's the island where it will be. When does that get built?"
"I don't know. 1800s some time."
She quoted from memory:
"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me.
I life my lamp beside the golden door."
"Nice," smiled John. They heard a noise and turned. A small boy stood a few feet away.
"Hi," said Claire.
The boy didn't respond. He was about ten years old, a ragamuffin.
"What's your name?" John asked.
"Toby," the boy replied.
"Did you see the President?" asked Claire.
The boy shook his head.
"Where are your parents?" asked John.
The boy shrugged, and darted away.
"I don't like it here," said Claire. "Let's go back."
They walked back to the clothing store. It was still locked. "Guess they gave people the day off," said John. They unlocked the door and went inside, locking it again behind them. John put his time watch back on, and put the remaining money on the counter. "I don't think I'll leave a note," he said. "Let them figure out the industrial revolution for themselves."
"You sound as depressed as I am," said Claire.
"Yeah," said John.
"Let's get out of here."
They walked to the back of the shop. She unfastened her time watch from her ankle and set it for September 17, 1946. They held hands and she pressed the lever.
The last thing they saw, through the door to the front of the shop, at the window peering in from outside, was the staring man.