Class of '59 (American Journey Book 4) (4 page)

Mary Beth hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and braced herself for an unpleasant confrontation. She did not know what she would say when she encountered the man. She did not know what she would do. She knew only that she had to act quickly and decisively.

Mary Beth entered the basement expecting to find a man. She did not expect to find a thirty-by-forty-foot space that looked like a heavenly lobby. White lights illuminated a chamber with white walls, white carpeting, and a white ceiling. A glass-and-brass coffee table stood between two large white couches near the back of the room.

"Hello?" Mary Beth asked. "Is anyone in here?"

No one replied. Then again, no one else was in the room. If a man had entered this basement, he had either raced out of the house at the speed of light or vanished into thin air.

Mary Beth walked around the room looking for clues. She found nothing useful. Then she saw a nondescript door that almost blended into the wall facing the backyard.

She gathered her courage once again, stepped toward the door, and opened it. She found a drab, narrow, unlighted tunnel that led to another door. She did not find a man.

Impossible
.

Mary Beth walked to the other door, opened it, and saw what she expected to see: a brick staircase that led to the backyard. She ascended the steps, stepped onto the lawn, and scanned the property for young men in white shirts and gray slacks. She didn't find anything more interesting than a riding mower. For the first time since tapping on the window of the reading room, she began to question what she saw. She needed more coffee.

Mary Beth walked down the brick stairs, shut the self-locking exterior door, and returned to the basement. She almost hoped to find the trespasser waiting for her. Better to lose her life, she thought, than lose her sanity. She laughed to herself. What a morning.

As she ascended the medieval steps, reentered the main part of the residence, and worked her way back to her French roast, Mary Beth pondered her next action. She considered calling Professor Bell again but ultimately decided against it. She did not want to interrupt his morning by reporting phantom trespassers. If he returned her aborted call later in the day, she would simply tell him she had a question about accessing his satellite television service.

Mary Beth returned to the reading room and the love seat, picked up a magazine, and read about an actress who had adopted three children from Africa. Then she perused an article about a Mississippi family that lived on thirty dollars a week. She read mindless fluff until she heard a clock chime nine times in the adjacent room and decided it was time to do something else.

Mary Beth finished her cold coffee, got up from the love seat, and stretched her arms. She stepped toward the door but stopped when she heard a loud and persistent bark. She walked to the window, wiped condensation from a pane, and peered through the glass. She needed only a second to see why the neighbor's dog, a German shepherd, was making such a fuss. College boy was trying to climb over Professor Bell's back fence.

Mary Beth did not bother tapping on the glass this time. She did not bother picking up her phone. She instead bolted from the room and raced toward the basement as fast as she could.

She did not know why the man had returned. Nor did she know why he had decided to enter the yard by climbing over the fence rather than walking through the unlocked front gate.

She knew only that when this daring individual tried to reenter the Painted Lady, he would have to first get past a
protective
lady. Mary Beth McIntire would be waiting for him.

CHAPTER 5: MARK

The elderly woman stared at Mark, offered a kind smile, and finally asked a question that had no doubt been on her mind since she had joined him in line.

"Are you auditioning for a movie, young man?"

Mark felt his stomach flutter.

"No, ma'am."

The woman widened her smile.

"I just thought I'd ask. I haven't seen a haircut or clothes like yours since I was in college. Back then, of course, all the boys looked like you."

Mark looked around the small grocery store for eavesdroppers. He didn't mind chatting with a woman who had to be pushing eighty, but he didn't want to invite additional scrutiny. He had already drawn his fair share of hard stares and raised eyebrows.

"When did you go to college?" Mark asked in a soft voice.

"I graduated in 1959," the woman said. "I know that's ancient history to young folks like you, but to me it seems like yesterday. The fifties were the best days we've ever had."

Mark smiled.

"I agree."

The woman nodded but said no more. A young person had agreed with her nostalgic view of the past. What more did she need?

Mark approached the checkout counter and handed the cashier, a young Latino woman, a magazine he had pulled from a nearby rack. He watched in fascination as she dragged the periodical over a tinted glass plate and three lighted numbers popped onto a small screen.

"That will be five thirty-eight," the cashier said.

Mark gave the clerk a five-dollar bill and a fifty-cent piece bearing the image of Benjamin Franklin. He held his breath when the woman gave the bill and the coin a cursory inspection and exhaled when she handed him a dime and two pennies minted in 2017.

He thanked the cashier, nodded to the elderly woman, and headed for the door. A moment later, he stepped into a busy parking lot, tucked the magazine under his shirt to keep it dry, and started toward the Painted Lady three blocks away.

Mark had wanted to do more than buy a magazine from a local grocery store. He had wanted to spend the entire day in Los Angeles and see more of the twenty-first century, but he had decided even before accessing the tunnel a second time to take it slow.

As he headed down the first block, Mark thought about Percival Bell's letter, the crystals in his pockets, and the woman in the window. He had more questions than answers. Who was she? What had she held in her hand? Did she live in the mansion? Was she alone? Did she know about the time tunnel? Had she reported him to the police?

Mark suspected that she had told someone.
He
would have told someone had he found a stranger milling about his property.

Despite the obvious risks of going back, Mark had not hesitated before committing to another trip. He had wanted to satisfy his curiosity and satisfy it before Ben got up and started asking a lot of questions. So he jumped back in. He grabbed the colorless rocks and what was left of his sanity and forty-five minutes later accessed the tunnel and the backyard again.

This time he had not walked to the middle of the yard, where he could easily be seen, but rather toward the mansion itself. He had moved quickly to the front gate, a windowless side of the house, and the street. To his knowledge, he had not drawn the attention of others.

Mark had then gone about exploring the neighborhood. He had visited a park, an unoccupied elementary school, and finally a small grocery store, where he noted the difference between the time on a clock and the time on his watch. Both seemed out of whack.

Once in the store, a place that offered more pop and potato chips than fruits and vegetables, he had gone straight to the magazines. He searched the racks for something useful and found it in the form of a news magazine's seventy-fifth anniversary edition. He concluded he would be able to learn a lot about the world after 1959 by simply thumbing through some pages.

Mark picked up his step as he crossed a street and started down the last block, but he stopped when he saw two women talk and laugh on the sidewalk in front of the Painted Lady. Neither seemed eager to exit the scene. Both no doubt would view him with suspicion if he walked past them to the front gate and gained entry to a property he no longer owned.

He retreated a few steps to the street corner, pondered his options, and then remembered the gate in back. If he could reach the gate unnoticed and uncontested, he could access the mansion's backyard and run to the time tunnel before any nosy girls could tap on a window.

Mark stepped away from the women and walked around the block until he reached the house that stood behind his one-time home. He studied the residence for a moment and didn't see anything that might cause alarm. The driveway was empty. Curtains were drawn. No humans or animals prowled the premises. At nine o'clock local time on what Mark knew was Friday, June 2, 2017, the property looked positively inviting.

Mark checked again for onlookers and then stepped toward a gate that provided access to the backyard. He lifted the latch, opened the gate slowly, and walked inside. He listened for voices or barks, heard neither, and proceeded through the side yard to the grassy patch in back. He smiled when he saw the Painted Lady in the background and the gate the properties shared.

He looked up at the sky and noticed a new bank of dark clouds rolling in from the Pacific. He made a mental note to bring a light jacket or an umbrella on his next visit.

Mark patted the magazine under his shirt, saw that it was firmly secured, and stepped toward the fence. He reached the gate as the wind picked up and the drizzle turned into a steady rain. He tried to lift the latch but found that he couldn't. Rust and neglect had apparently rendered it useless. So he gave up on the latch and decided to climb over the fence instead.

He placed two hands on top of the six-foot barrier and started to pull himself up when he heard a bark. He lowered himself to the ground, glanced over his right shoulder, and saw a complication he didn't need. A German shepherd had detected his presence.

The canine exited the far side of a covered porch, ran around a fountain, and raced toward the trespasser from the 1950s at breakneck speed. The dog looked hungry.

Mark didn't need another reason to move with haste. He quickly pulled half of his body over the top of the fence and lifted his feet just as the German shepherd lunged at them. The dog missed his target and tumbled a few feet but quickly regrouped. He charged again and this time sank his teeth into the intruder's right foot.

Mark winced at the pain. He eventually shook himself free but not before Fido bit into his foot a second time and chewed off a chunk of his gray slacks. He swung both feet over the top of the fence and landed on all fours in a patch of petunias.

Dazed, shaken, and unnerved, Mark stood up, brushed dirt off his pants, and stepped into the yard. As he walked briskly toward the stairwell, the Painted Lady, and 1959, Mark glanced at the large paned window. He saw no one behind it. Thank God for small blessings, he thought.

Mark stuck a hand in his shirt pocket and reached for the skeleton key. He retrieved it when he reached the top of the stairway, held it out when he started down the steps, and dropped it when he saw a woman with folded arms standing in front of the door.

"Hello," the woman said. "Are we having fun yet?"

Mark dropped his head and sighed. He berated himself for not trusting his instincts. He should have waited a day before traveling again. He looked at the woman.

"Who are you?"

She narrowed her eyes.

"Perhaps I should ask
you
that question."

"I'm Mark Ryan. I live here."

"That's funny," the woman said. "I'm a guest here. I know the man who owns this house. I know his wife. You don't look like either one. Shall we try again?"

"Please let me pass," Mark said. "I mean you no harm. If you let me pass, I promise you'll never see me again."

The woman dropped her hands to her hips and laughed.

"You're a regular comedian."

"Please," Mark said. "Just let me in."

"No."

"I could force my way in."

"I could also scream," the woman said. She hardened her stare. "I don't think you want me to wake the neighbors. Do you?"

"No."

"Why don't you be a good boy and return to your movie set or frat party or wherever you came from?"

"I can't," Mark said.

The woman's face softened.

"Why not?"

"I'm not from here."

"What do you mean you're not from here?" she asked. "You just told me you live here."

"I do," Mark said. He took a breath. "I live here in 1959."

CHAPTER 6: MARY BETH

Saturday, March 21, 1959

Ten minutes later, Mary Beth stared at a copy of the
Los Angeles News
– a March 21, 1959, copy of the
Los Angeles News
– and then at the strange man she had captured in Geoffrey Bell's backyard. For the second time in less than an hour, she questioned her sanity.

"Let me get this straight," Mary Beth said. She sat across from the home invader at a small table in the kitchen. "You've done all this with two rocks and a key?"

Mark nodded.

"The rocks activate the tunnel downstairs. The key opens the exterior door from the outside. I was about to use the key when I ran into you."

Mary Beth smiled as she revisited the encounter in the stairway. She had not believed for a minute that Mark was from 1959, but she had let him enter the basement anyway because she believed him to be harmless and in need of help. Now that she was sitting in a venue that tested even her fertile imagination, she did not know what to believe.

"I'm sorry for startling you," Mary Beth said.

"That's all right, Miss—"

Mary Beth extended a hand.

"I'm Mary Beth McIntire. It's nice to meet you, Mark Ryan."

Mark shook her hand.

"It's nice to meet you too."

Mary Beth paused to inspect her surroundings. She recognized the kitchen but almost none of its trappings. The table was different. So were the oven, the refrigerator, and cabinets. Pastel pink had replaced stainless steel. A percolator and a blender stood in place of an espresso machine and a toaster. Fancier paper covered the walls.

Mary Beth had noticed other things as well. The heavenly basement she had explored in 2017 was now a dingy dump. The living room and the dining room sported furniture from
Leave It to Beaver
and
Father Knows Best
. Bright sunshine spilled through clear windows. A black telephone with a rotary dial sat atop a counter.