The Time Travelers' Club: Chapter 8 -- The Old Bookshop

Mrs. Steers sat back in her chair.

"Let me tell you when and how we first learned about time-traveling.  Let me see…  That must have been about thirty years ago, about this time of year, when Albert and I were first married.  We honeymooned in London.  Here, let me show you a picture of us while we were there."

Going over to the sideboard, Mrs. Steers opened a drawer and pulled out an old black photo album.  After returning to her seat, she thumbed through the pages filled with neatly arranged black and white photos hinged to the pages.

"Here we are," said Mrs. Steers pointing to one of a young couple standing along a riverfront. "This was taken on the Thames.  Look how handsome Albert was and I was so young."

Sam looked at the smiling honeymooners.  Albert wore a dark sports jacket and plain shirt with no tie.  Sam thought Albert looked like a nice guy.  The young Mrs. Steers wore a flowered dress that hung to her knees.  He recognized her immediately.   She hadn't changed much.   Laying the album on the table, Mrs. Steers left it opened to the photograph and returned to her story.

"This was taken the day before Albert found that bizarre little bookshop, tucked down a side alley in London.  It was an out-of-the-way place for a bookshop, but, like I said,  Albert loved books and any shop that sold them was fair game. I remember the bookshop's name. It  was painted in black with gold trim on a wooden sign hanging above the windows.  It said Rupert Jameson, Dealer of Rare and Unusual Books and an Assortment of Other Strange and Mysterious Finds.  Odd name for a shop, don't you think?"

Sam nodded becoming somewhat intrigued by Mrs. Steers' story.

"The outside of the shop reminded me of something you would see in old movies.  You know the ones that are set back in the 1800s.  And there would be jars of candy or dresses standing in the window.  The main door was solid wood with only a small window about eye level for someone to peek out.  When we entered the bookshop, the first thing I noticed was the smell of old paper and pipe tobacco.   My father smoked a pipe so I knew that smell well."  Mrs. Steers scrunched her nose.

"In the middle of the room was an oversized black pot-bellied stove with a stovepipe running up to the ceiling, across the room, and out a side window.  It was keeping that shop warm.  I could see a pile of glowing embers in it and thought 'I hope it doesn't catch the place on fire with all this paper.'  A long wooden counter stood on one side. And there were a couple of old tables and a few chairs on the other side.  Every flat surface was piled with papers, books, boxes…"

Mrs. Steers rolled her eyes laughing. "I'm glad I didn't have to clean that place…"

"Oh, but so many unusual yet interesting objects filled that shop.  Old books on witchcraft, hocus-pocus, fortune-telling were stacked everywhere, including the floor. I even remember a large crystal ball on a gold stand.   There were so many books I was convinced the whole shop was held together just by them.   And some of the photographs and pictures were strange.   There was a painting of a rather elegant woman.  I swear she was staring right at us and her eyes followed us as we moved.  Anyway...

While we were poking about, a voice with a heavy English accent came from somewhere behind a stack of books.  "Welcome to my shop.  I am Rupert Jameson. What can I find for you?"

It took me a moment to find where the voice had come from, but there behind the counter, sitting straight up on a old rickety-looking stool, was the shopkeeper with a open book in his hand.  He looked… well... strange.

His bushy gray hair stuck out from under a round embroidered cap.  He was clean-shaven despite his bushy hair.   He wore small round wire-rimmed spectacles." 

Mrs. Steers made circles with her forefinger and thumb and held them up to her eyes.

"And his clothes... They looked like something from a theater performance.  He had on a red velvet jacket... somewhat worn but clean and neat... I could see he had green and blue-striped pants, and a high-starched collar that stood around his neck, making it look like his head was sitting in a white bowl.  Around the lower part of the collar was a bright orange neckerchief... tied in a loose bow. He wore strange medallions on a chain...  A moon, a star, a triangle with a white stone in the center... I remember thinking he looked like someone from a Dickens novel crossed with the Mad Hatter."

"Oh, we're just looking," replied Albert.

"We are never just looking. There's always something we are seeking," said the shopkeeper.

"Well, I'm interested in history," said Albert. "Is there a section for that?"

The shopkeeper stared hard at him before announcing.

"I have one book that may be of interest to you."   The shopkeeper slipped down off the stool and walked over to a large display cabinet, the kind with latticed-work glass windows.  I could see an old hand-written sign on one of the doors that read Books Bound with Human Skin.

Sam perked up even more.  His eyes widened.  "Really?" said Sam.  "Were there books in there made from human skin?"

Mrs. Steers made a grimacing look and continued with her story.  "I was horrified!   I stood there thinking to myself -- Don't you even dare get one of those books out of that cabinet.   I would have been sick.  I have no idea if they were really bound in human skin or not.  Thankfully, he walked on by the cabinet and disappeared down an aisle of books.  Albert and I stood there waiting."

I whispered to Albert. "Odd fellow."

"Eccentric," whispered Albert.

In a few moments, the shopkeeper came back and handed Albert a leather-bound book, about the size of a paperback. It had beautiful gold scroll work on the spine.

"This is the perfect book for you, sir.” Jameson ran his hand over the spine. “As you can see, it is hand-bound in fine morocco leather.  The clasps are brass with fine scroll work.  It is in excellent condition. Please take it, as a gift.  You will enjoy it, my guarantee."  Jameson handed Albert the book.

"Oh, I couldn't just take it.  Surely, it's valuable.  How much is it?" asked Albert without even looking at the book's title.

"No charge, sir," said Jameson.  "The book... it is yours."  Albert looked at me then we looked at Jameson.

"Umm, well, okay.... Thanks," said Albert.  "Are you sure I don't owe you something?"  The shopkeeper shook his head and smiled.  I felt uncomfortable.  The whole situation seemed strange... the bookshop... the shopkeeper.

"Albert, let's go."  I nudged him a little.   I had no problem getting him to leave.  He was as uncomfortable as I was.   So, we left the shop with the book and walked about two blocks where we found a cafe.  It was past noon and I was starving.  We ordered fish and chips. Albert talked about that odd bookshop and the odd bookshop owner.  I cared only about eating.

"Lottie, that whole bookstore was strange.  That guy gave me the book for no reason.  Surely, it's valuable."   Albert pulled the book out the side pocket of his sports coat and started to examine it.  He unlatched the clasps and opened it.   

The end sheet had something written in what looked like Latin.  Neither Albert nor I could read Latin, but there was another note in English.  Albert read it out loud.

"This book is number seven out of seven known to have existed. Don't lose it.  Use it wisely. Your friend, AN."  We had no idea what that meant.  Albert turned to the title page and read it out loud.

"We should take it back," I said.  "It's nonsense. No one could learn to time travel. It’s all crazy."

"I agree," said Albert.  "Let's take it back."

After lunch, we retraced our steps right back to the bookshop... or at least where we thought it was.  It was gone. There was nothing but a solid brick wall where it should have been.  No door, no sign, no bookshop. Nothing. We stood there staring in disbelief.  We never did find it.   We searched other alleys, but I was positive we had gone down the right one the first time.

I remembered the shop next to the alley was a furniture store with an overstuffed chair with green upholstery in the window… which I liked so much I bought it and shipped it home. But as for the bookshop… It had simply vanished." 

Mrs. Steers stopped her story and gazed at Sam.

"There you have it," said Mrs. Steers. "The beginning of a whole new life."

"You never found the bookshop again?" asked Sam, trying his best to put this crazy puzzle together.  “And what about the book?”

"Yes and no, but that's another story," said Mrs. Steers.  "Albert read that book from cover to cover several times.  He would disappear for hours into the attic.  I was beginning to get worried.  He was obsessed with it.  One day, I decided to go up to the attic and see what he was doing.   I remember it was December, a couple of days before Christmas.   It had snowed the night before.

Anyway, so he always locked the attic door.  You know the one in the laundry room, but I had a spare key.  I crept up the stairs.  The attic was a little chilly.  At that time, it was cleaner and Albert had set up a reading corner for when he wanted to concentrate.  I saw Albert taking a nap in his high back armchair.  Or so I thought he was napping…

"Albert?"  I said.  "Are you okay?  What are you doing up here?"  He sat there, not moving.  I tiptoed over, hoping not to startle him.  Albert looked ill, all red in the face.  I put my hand on his arm; he was hot and clammy.

"Can you hear me? Albert!"   He didn't stir.  His breathing was slow but steady.  "Albert!"  I shook his arm.  Nothing at first, but then he started to move a little.  Then his eyes flew open. He sat straight up in the chair and yelled "No!  He's got a gun!"

I stumbled backwards, falling to the floor.  Albert sat wide-eyed for a few seconds, and then slumped back into the chair. He rubbed his forehead and looked down at me.  I stared up at him.

"Lottie?  What happened? What are you doing on the floor?"

"You tell me! I thought you were dead!"  I was so upset and shaken.

Albert sat staring into space, before getting up.  At first, he had trouble getting his balance, but finally stood up and helped me up off the floor.  Then he jumped about.

"What is wrong with you?"  I didn’t know what to do.

"Lottie!  It worked!  I did it!" Albert was laughing hysterically.

"Did what?" I asked while he still bounced around like a school boy who got out for summer break.

"Lottie.   The book...  The book... I did it.  I made it work.   I was right there.  I could see him.  Both of them!"  Albert was overcome with delight.  I hadn't seen him so excited.

I still stood there with my mouth hanging open.  Albert pranced excitedly around and rattled on about the night Lincoln was assassinated.  All I thought was Me, a young wife with a husband whose gone nuts!

Albert told me the most bizarre story.  "I was standing in the same theater box where Abraham Lincoln sat at Ford's Theater the night he was shot. I stood in the corner and saw John Wilkes Booth sneak in." Albert rubbed his forehead.  "It was awful.  I was about to shout something like "get out of the way" when I heard your voice coming out of nowhere."

Finally, he calmed down a little. Albert described the whole experience like being a ghost, but able to smell odors, hear sounds, feel air, and talk without being heard…  He was there, but not there to the people around him, that is.  He described it in great detail right down to the pattern in the carpet on the floor.  Albert had a photographic memory.

Sam was getting freaked out by her story.  He couldn't listen anymore.

"Mrs. Steers, I have to go," said Sam. "I've got homework to do and my mom… wants me to clean my room… and she'll be fixing dinner…  I don't have time for this stupid story about time travel and magic...  It's stupid."

With that, Sam jumped up, scurrying out the front door letting the screen door slam behind him.  Mrs. Steers sat perplexed.

"Well, that didn't go over as well as I'd hoped."

The Time Travelers' Club: Chapter 7 -- The Apology

Meandering down the stairs, he wondered what Mrs. Steers might say, hearing her voice in his head, "Oh, it's alright.  It's my fault for leaving it unlocked."

Or he could make up a fib.  "Well, Mrs. Steers, I thought I heard a squirrel running around.  You know how they are… doing squirrelly stuff… so when I checked the door, it was unlocked."

She might be grateful saying something like "Oh thank you for checking.  Squirrels can cause a lot of damage."  Sam knew that it wouldn’t work. His mom would check later to find out if he apologized.  Sam was relieved about one thing. He could apologize to Mrs. Steers by himself.  Sam hated when his Mom stood next to him and made sure he actually apologized, getting nervous and teary-eyed.  His mom wasn't mean, just stern.

Sam stepped out onto the front porch.  Mrs. Steers wasn't sitting in her rocking chair, which meant he had to knock on her front door.   Standing in front of the screen door, he saw the inside door was open, but the metal mesh screen made the inside dark from the outside.

"Maybe I shouldn't disturb her.  Maybe she's busy writing or something."  Sam paused, preparing to knock, when Mrs. Steers' voice came from inside.

"Hello, Sam."  Sam jumped, not expecting her.  Mrs. Steers pushed open the screen door.  "Why don't you come in and visit."    

Sam stepped into the hallway. The high ceiling made him feel short. The tall coat rack with a center round mirror stood across from the newel post at the bottom of the stairway.

To his left was a sitting room.  Bookcases lined the walls, packed with books, odd knick knacks, vases of all sizes and shapes, white ceramic statuettes and busts, and an assortment of weird objects he couldn't identify. An overstuffed red upholstered sofa and matching chairs sat in the middle of the room with a square coffee table stacked high with books.  He was amazed at the enormous green-marbled fireplace with a floor to ceiling wooden mantel dominating the wall facing him.  A painting of a wooded scene hung in the center above it.  Picture frames filled the mantel – some plain wood, some silver with fancy scroll work, and ones with gilded edges -- with photographs inside that looked as old.

"Let's go in here." Mrs. Steers led him to the right into the dining room.  An antique oak table and six matching chairs sat on a patterned oriental carpet of red, green, and blue.   In the center of the table sat a clear glass three-tiered cake stand.   A massive sideboard stood at the opposite wall, displaying green glass serving dishes such as bowls and platters.

"I've finished baking.  The cookies are still warm. They're your favorite -- snicker doodles."

How could she know that?, thought Sam.

"I'll pour some milk and bring the cookies," said Mrs. Steers.  "Why don't you have a seat and when I get back, we'll chat."  Before she exited through a swinging door which he assumed opened to the kitchen, she winked and said in a cheerful voice.  "I already know."

Pulling out a side chair, Sam squeezed between it and the table and sat waiting. Sam's stomach churned and wondered what she meant by "I already know."

Great! Mom already called her.  I'm gonna get it now.

Yet, there was something unusual about Mrs. Steers, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.  How did she know about the peanut butter and jelly sandwich and now the snicker doodles?  And she certainly didn’t seem upset.  That is if she already knew.

Mrs. Steers returned carrying a tray with a pitcher of milk, two glasses, and a plate of fresh-baked cookies on it. The aroma teased Sam's nose. Mrs. Steers poured the milk and sat down.

"Now, what would you like to tell me?  Or even better, what would you like me to tell you?" said Mrs. Steers, looking right into Sam’s eyes.

"Well, my mom said I should come and apologize.   I mean… tell you that I didn't mean to..." Before he could finish, Mrs. Steers interrupted him.

"I see.  Well, let me help clear your conscience.  I'm not mad at you.   With that said, why don't you tell me what you found?"  Strangely, Mrs. Steers had an air of enthusiasm about his snooping.

Sam first thought of the newspaper but then felt confused.  "Mrs. Steers, I'm… not really sure… what to say.   Did my mom already call you?"

"No," said Mrs. Steers, shaking her head.   "Sam, tell me what you found and we'll talk." She sipped some milk then took a bite out of her cookie.

"Well… I found the attic door open when I accidentally knocked the ironing board over…"

"Yes, I know.  I forgot to lock it," she replied.

"So, I went up into the attic," continued Sam.  "I admit it…  My curiosity got the best of me…  There was so much neat and cool stuff…  And then I found this box…  And this newspaper... and the note saying it had a fingerprint of Jack the Ripper on it...  Then my mom came home and I..."

Mrs. Steers motioned for him to stop.  "Ah yes, Albert and I were in Indianapolis for a business trip one time.  We shopped in a local department store there. I bought something that they put in that box.   I want to say it was a blouse.  Anyway, it doesn't matter.   Later I used it to store the newspaper with the fingerprint."

She paused then said something Sam did not get at all.  "Scary time. I thought we were going to get caught.  I don't know why.   No one could see us."

Scary time? Getting caught? What is she talking about? Did she shoplift at that store?  Sam looked perplexed.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you? That's what I thought about Albert when he first told me about his experiments.   You see, Albert and I time-traveled a lot," said Mrs. Steers like it was nothing. "Not the kind you read about in books where the characters would travel back or forward in time and be there just like they lived there, but the kind where we could only see events or places or people..." she said.   "Whenever we traveled, it was like watching a movie in 3D or like being a ghost in another time."

Sam stared at her. His mouth hung open.  She's crazy!

"Have you ever read "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens?" asked Mrs. Steers.

"Yes… I have," stuttered Sam.

"Remember when The Ghost of Christmas Past took Scrooge back to see himself as a school boy, then later as a young man.  The Ghost said something about seeing shadows of people and events that had already been.  That's what it was like for us, I mean traveling back in time.  However, we could smell odors, feel the cold or hot air, and hear the sounds and conversations of wherever we were… "  Mrs. Steers took another sip of her milk.

"We couldn't touch anything, like fabrics or food or flesh.   Anything organic or alive...  It's hard to explain.   I remember the first time I walked through someone...   A elderly woman.   She never knew I'd passed through her…  Albert told me stories about watching armies march into battle as if it was a movie.  He watched Lincoln give the Gettysburg Address.  Albert was fascinated by history."

Sam sat perfectly still.  His eyes fixed on Mrs. Steers, thinking how crazy she was.  He blurted out.  "No way! There's no such thing.  It's not possible."

"But it is," said Mrs. Steers.  "Surely you believe in magic or spells or incantations?"  Before Sam could answer, Mrs. Steers continued, appearing to go off on a different subject.

"Albert read all the time.  He collected books.  When we were first married, he already had a huge collection of them.  Whenever we traveled, we had to stop at any bookstores we found." Mrs. Steers paused.

"Another cookie?" Mrs. Steers held the plate up. Sam felt for another one, not taking his eyes off her.

2020: The Year of Perfect Vision

2019 is over.  A decade comes to close and a new one begins.

I was reviewing my blog posts all the way back to 2011 and rediscovered a couple of short stories that I had written.  Also surfacing were a few posts about rough times of my life.  There were a few that were just about whatever was going on at the moment.

But the one thing that stuck out was how I had lost my vision on writing and being creative.  And it shows in the number of posts.

In hindsight, it was an short-lived era of change.  I can feel my creativity stirring after a long period of hibernation.  With the posting of my first book in a Dickensian fashion, I feel like my blog is coming back to life.  And I can only hope that it is me coming back to life.  Finding that creative spark.  Filling the pot with ideas and plots.

I hope it does.  I think it's what I need more than ever right now.

Cheers to 2020!

CSM

The Time Travelers' Club: Chapter 6 -- Into the Attic

In their apartment, Sam saw that the light was on in the laundry room.

"Mom? Are you home?"  Sam glanced in the bedrooms.  There were no signs of her.

Sam entered the laundry room and tried the knob on the door into Mrs. Steers part of the house, but it was locked.  After switching the light off in the laundry room, he bumped into the folded-up ironing board.  It fell into the attic door, causing it to pop open.  Sam stood surprised looking down at the ironing board now flat on the floor, trying to remember if his Mom had left it out.  She had finished ironing the day before.  Sam looked at the attic door.

"Why is the attic door unlocked? It's usually locked.”  Sam peeked into the crack of the slightly open door.  Since his mom wasn't home yet, he figured a quick check wouldn't hurt.

"Wait," whispered Sam, remembering that scary movie from the other night.   

"That woman heard a noise from the basement…  When she checked… without turning the lights on… a bunch of little monsters dragged her away."  Sam slowly pulled the attic door open further, just enough to see it was dark and dusty.

Taking the flashlight from the junk drawer in the kitchen, Sam opened the attic door the rest of the way.  Sam flashed the light up the dark stairs.  Cobwebs in the corners swayed.  From somewhere at the top of the stairwell, dim sunlight entered the attic.

 "Hello?  Anyone up there?" said Sam.  "Mrs. Steers, are you up there?"

Silence.  Nothing stirred.  Nothing moved.

"Anyone?" He said a little louder.  "Mrs. Steers?"

Sam crept up the stairs, stopped, and listened.  Still nothing.  Reaching the top of the step, he flashed the light around the dimly lit attic.   His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark.  Cobwebs stretched from the high-pitched ceiling to the exposed rafters.  He could see the joists and the dormers.  Curtained windows allowed some sunlight in.

Sam found a light switch at the top of the stairwell.  Click.  A few light bulbs began to glow, lighting up a main aisle.

"Look at this!  It looks like a museum!"   The attic was a packed treasure trove of stuff, waiting for exploration.  His curiosity skyrocketed as he tiptoed down the center path.

Sam brushed past stacks of cardboard boxes, trying to avoid getting dusty.  Old worn-out sheets covered what looked like chairs and tables. An old rocking horse waited for a young rider to straddle its red leather saddle. Antique trunks stacked three high at most. A gramophone with a large brass horn. Large paintings covered with sheets stood against a bookcase packed with well-loved books.  Sam pulled back a sheet to reveal a portrait of an elderly yet stately gentleman in a suit.

He knew little about the Steers, but apparently, they didn't throw anything away.

Sam brushed up against a dress-makers dummy causing it to sway back and forth.  He shone his flashlight between two towering stacks of cardboard boxes.  Two glowing eyes peered from the shadows.  Sam jumped back, falling against a stack of trunks. Dust flew from all directions.  Coughing, Sam fanned the fog of dust away from his face. Timidly, he shone the light between them again.  This time, a mounted head of an open-mouth tiger greeted him, staring right at him.  Sam stopped wide-eyed.  Its eyes sparkled from the light.  It didn't move.  It wasn't alive.

"Whoa!  Nice kitty," said Sam, sighing with relief, with his heart still racing.

He stooped down to look in a partially opened cardboard box.  He could see wrapped bundles of brittle yellowed newspapers.  It was March 4, 1968.  He reached in and felt one of the wrapped bundles.

"Is that a cup?  Hmmm… this one feels like a vase."  As he reached for another wrapped bundle, a grey mouse ran from between a couple of wrapped items and looked up at him.  Sam quickly pulled his hand out of the box.

"Hey, Mr. Mouse. Better watch it.  There's a large cat hanging out back there." More scared of Sam, the mouse scurried its way back into the depths of the crumpled newspaper.

Flashing his light around, Sam noticed a square table, not covered with a sheet.  On top of it, placed dead center, sat a long, rectangular red box, the kind that clothes were often wrapped in at Christmas.  Sam focused the flashlight on it and walked over to the table.  Sam saw the box had a decorated Christmas tree in the center under which was printed in green letters "L.S. Ayres Department Store, Indianapolis."

Sam was puzzled and looked around at the other sheet-covered furniture.   Sam ran his hand across the table, then the lid of the box.  "Why is there no dust on the table or the box? Everything else is covered in dust."

His streak of curiosity got the best of him and his imagination raced.

"What could be inside?  A treasure map?  Gold coins?  Jewels?"  Sam muttered.  

Laying the flashlight down, he removed the lid.  Inside was a folded newspaper.  Across the top, it read "The London Times" and dated August 23, 1888.  After staring for a moment, Sam picked up the newspaper and unfolded it.  Unlike the newspaper in the boxes, this one was like new.

"This has to be a fake. It unfolded too easy."  Sam read a couple of headlines and then saw something strange on the upper left edge.  He picked up the flashlight and focused on a weird smudge.  Glancing inside the box, he saw a hand-written note on a index card.

This newspaper may have the only clue to the identity of London's most notorious serial killer.  A bloody fingerprint of Jack the Ripper.  It was found at the murder scene of Catherine Eddowes on September 30, 1888. #39

The past few weeks of Sam’s history class had focused on Victorian England.  He remembered reading something about Jack the Ripper murdering several women in an area of London know as Whitechapel.

Sam scoffed at the idea. "Pffft... Someone's playing a stupid joke.  This can't be for real."  Leaning over the newspaper, he began to read more of the headlines, but he was interrupted.

"Sam, I'm home.” It was his mom. He heard the front door close.

Startled, Sam quickly refolded the newspaper, put it back in the box, and put on the lid.  He started to walk away, but then he picked up the box.

"No.  What are you doing?" whispered Sam.  "You can't take this. It's not yours."  Sam really wanted to ask Mrs. Steers about it, but he put it back on the table and tiptoed back to the stairs. If his mom found out he had been where he wasn’t supposed to be, he would be in big trouble.  When he reached the bottom step, his mom came into the laundry room.

"Why is this door open?  Have you been up there?" she said in her "you're-in-deep-trouble-mister" tone.

Sam explained about the ironing board, the unlocked door, and possibly a burglar.  Being honest with his mom, he explained no one was up there, but his curiosity had taken over.

"You should have gone downstairs for help. You know we are not to go up there." Emily shut the attic door.  Sam nodded in agreement staring down at his feet.

"I saw Mrs. Steers on the front porch," said Emily.  "Go downstairs, apologize for being somewhere you were not supposed to be, and ask her politely to come up and lock it. When you come back up, you are to finish your homework, if it isn't done already.  That is a direct order."  A direct order from his mom meant do it or else.  This was not the time to argue.

"I have groceries to put away."  His mom went to her bedroom to change clothes.

"Now I'm in for it.  What will Mrs. Steers think?" said Sam under his breath.  “I hope she doesn’t kick us out.”

The Time Travelers' Club: Chapter 5 -- An Idle Conversation

The school day passed quickly. The sun shone bright and short gusts of wind swirled the fallen leaves on the ground.  Sam felt confident about his spelling test but had new homework due the next day.   Fractions!

Reaching the front of the house, he could hear a squeaking noise.  On the porch, Mrs. Steers rocked back and forth in her favorite rocking chair. Her metal knitting needles click-clacked as she worked blue and green yarns into what appeared to be a scarf.

"Good afternoon, Sam.  How was school today?"

"Okay, thank you," said Sam, arriving at the top step. 

"I had a great talk with your Mom the other day about her books.   She's a very good writer who needs the right publisher.  Do you like the apartment?"

"It's nice. I like the view of the park across the street.  I can see it from my bedroom window.  I'm also glad you're willing to help my Mom.  She writes and writes but never has any luck with the publishers.” 

Sam, trying to be polite, said goodbye. and headed towards the screen door to their apartment.  He wanted his favorite after school snack -- a peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich.

"That's nice to hear, Sam," said Mrs. Steers.  "Would you like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Sam?  It's your favorite -- strawberry."  Sam spun around and looked at her.  "I prepared it for you."

On a plate on the side table next to her laid a perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  He couldn't believe it.

"What?  How did you know strawberry was my favorite?  Did my Mom tell you?"

"A lucky guess. I know it's strange for me to offer, but I thought it might give us a chance to visit."

Sam pondered for a moment before taking her up on her offer and sat in the chair next to her.  After a conversation about school, Mrs. Steers asked him what he liked to read.  They enjoyed many of the same favorite authors and books.

"I love to read some of the latest novels," said Mrs. Steers.  "There are many good books being published these days, but I'm partial to mysteries, tales of suspense, and anything that has wizardry.  I have stacks of books all over the place."

"My books used to be stacked," said Sam.  "They're organized now. Alphabetical by author then title.  Just like a real library."

"Good for you.  I've always enjoyed reading.  Albert was a voracious reader.  History, biographies, travel guides...  you name it."

"Albert and I have one thing in common," said Sam.

"Really.  What's that?"

"I like travel guides, too." Sam finished the last bites of the sandwich and talked with his mouth full.  "My dad moved us a lot.  I got to see a lot of places.  One day in math class, some of the other boys were talking about their trips to summer camp.  I tried to talk about my trip to Mount Rushmore with my parents."  Sam stopped and looked disheartened.

"They didn't care about Mount Rushmore?" said Mrs. Steers.  Sam shrugged and shook his head.

"They called me a B.F.L.”  Sam stared at his shoes, scuffing them on the porch floor.

"B.F.L?  What's that?"

"Big fat loser."  Sam sighed, believing it sometimes to be true.

"That's rude!" Mrs. Steers shook her head.  "Don't even think about that.  Why don't you tell me about other places you've been? We'll see if you've been to any place I've been."

"Other than Mount Rushmore, I've been to San Francisco."

"Loved it.  Both before and after the earthquake."  Mrs. Steers returned to her knitting.

"What earthquake?" said Sam.

Mrs. Steers knocked her ball of yarn off her lap.  It rolled to the edge of the porch.  Sam ran after it and caught it before it dropped over the edge.

"Thank you, Sam.  That was a close call."  She took the ball and rerolled the yarn.  "Have you ever been to Baltimore?  Edgar Allen Poe is buried there."

"Nope.  We did go to a cemetery in Boston and I saw where Mother Goose is buried."

"That's right, she is buried there.  I wonder what she really looked like."   Mrs. Steers paused.  "Note to self. Look for sketch of the real Mother Goose."

"Well, I have homework to do. My mom will be home soon.  Thank you for the sandwich, Mrs. Steers."

Mrs. Steers smiled. "You're welcome. Maybe we can talk again soon. I'd like to hear more about your travels.   And never mind those other boys.  They're just jealous.  They probably have no idea what Mount Rushmore is."

"Really?  You think so."

"I know so," said Mrs. Steers. "Sometime you will have to show me your photo albums.  I bet you have lots of great photos of places you've been."

"Sure."  Sam walked to the screen door then ran up the stairs.  Excited, Sam had found someone to talk about traveling.  Nobody else cared about his adventures.  Sam had tried talking to his mom a couple of times, but she passed saying "Maybe later."  Sam knew it was hard for her.   His dad's death had changed their world.   Now, Sam only had the photo albums and travel books to remind him of what life was like.

The Time Travelers' Club: Chapter 4 -- An Ordinary Day

Sam rose early, showered and combed his hair, only one more day until the weekend.  After a quick glance out the bedroom window, he knew from the swaying bare trees outside it would be a perfect day for a warm sweater.

Digging through the closet, Sam found his favorite blue bulky sweater, the one that made him feel thinner.   Each time they shopped for school clothes, his mom would reassure him with "You're not overweight.  You're husky." or "You're big boned like your father."   Other boys at school teased Sam about his weight, making him self-conscious and feeling bullied.

After getting dressed, Sam ate breakfast of cold cereal and crunchy wheat toast. His mom came into the kitchen.

"Are you ready for your spelling test?" asked his mom cutting a bagel in half. 

Sam looked up from his cheap mystery novel he'd checked out from the library.

"Yes, I'm as ready as I'll ever be.”

Emily poured herself a cup of coffee adding, "Don't forget to brush your teeth.  The last time, the dentist said you need to brush more."   She disappeared back into her bedroom.

Finishing breakfast, Sam put his dirty dishes in the sink and went to brush his teeth.   During the whole ritual of 'up-down-front-to-back,' he practiced spelling in his mind.  Apothecary... A-p-o-t-h-e-c-a-r-y... Apothecary...Brushing... B-r-u-s-h-i-n-g... Brushing...

Cuckoo!  The cuckoo clock in the living room sang out, signally 7:30.   Sam spit out and rinsed into the bathroom sink.  After washing his hands, he grabbed his jacket and book bag from his bedroom.  Emily put on her coat.  They hustled down the stairs.

Sam enjoyed their morning ritual of walking with his mom.  Somewhere deep inside, Sam feared his mom might leave him as well, like his dad.

“Promise me you won’t leave me,” said Sam.

Emily was surprised by his comment.  “Why would I do that?”

Sam dropped the conversation and shrugged his shoulders.

Throughout their neighborhood, Sam noticed the several houses had been decorated for Halloween.

"Mom, can we get a pumpkin?"  Emily nodded, adding that the grocery around the corner had some.  "Or... I could call Grandma and Grandpa and see if they would be willing to take us to that enormous pumpkin farm up north."

Every October, people could choose their own pumpkin directly out of the pumpkin patch. Sometimes the farmer and his wife had other activities to do such as candle-making, old-time games, carving lessons, hay rides, or Sam's favorite, sampling pumpkin pie.

"That would be awesome!" said Sam.  "We haven't seen them for a few weeks."  Sam was building a better relationship with his grandparents.   His Grandpa Henry looked like an older version of his dad.

"Want me to get some movies for the weekend?" asked his Mom.

"Sure.  See if you can get something scary."

"Okay.  I'll see if we have any with Vincent Price."

"Who?"

"You know.  Remember the ones loosely based on Edgar Allen Poe stories."

"Oh, yeah.  Those were strange. They didn't follow the stories that well, but I still liked them." Sam was an avid Poe and movie fan.

Now he had even more to anticipate -- scary movies, a trip out of town with his Grandpa and Grandma Henry, and pumpkin pie tasting.  Sam wished they owned a car, but the costs were too much.  Beside his school, the library and the grocery were both nearby.

Sam's mind wandered to a conversation he had with his dad a few weeks before the final trip to the hospital.

"Sam, you would make a great travel agent," murmured George, his throat bright red and blistered from the radiation treatment.   Sam showed his dad the Midwestern travel guide from which he planned a long weekend trip to Indianapolis then up to Detroit.  Sam remembered his dad's bald head, the smell of sickness, and the medicine bottles lined in a row on the table next to his bed.

Sam slightly shook his head, chasing away the memory. Stopping at their usual corner where they parted company, Emily reminded him to be safe and go straight home from school.  Sam said the same to her.  She went one direction to the library.  He went another to school, making a stop near the school to wipe his tear-filled eyes on his jacket sleeve.

The Time Travelers' Club: Chapter 3 -- Organizing

A couple of weeks later on a sunny Saturday morning, the Henrys watched the movers carry their belongings into their new home.

"Where do you want these boxes marked Sam's books," asked a burly man wearing a gray jacket with "Mark's Moving" in red-embroidered letters across the back.

"Those go in my room over there," pointed Sam to his bedroom.  "Put them anywhere in there."  The mover lumbered across the living room to the front bedroom.

Two other movers followed behind him carrying Sam's old blue-painted desk.  Since his bedroom faced the park across the street, he asked them to put it in front of the window.  A perfect place with plenty of light for doing homework and watching squirrels race around the park.

Heading to the kitchen, Sam ran into Mrs. Steers who had magically appeared from nowhere.

"Oh, excuse me," said Sam startled by her.  "I didn't see you come in."

"Sorry, Sam," she said.  "I shouldn't have come in unannounced.  I came through the front door instead of the laundry room."

Sweaty and flushed from moving boxes, Emily came into the kitchen.  "Oh hello, Mrs. Steers.  I didn't hear you come in. I would offer you something to drink, but who knows where the glasses are."

"Oh, don't worry," said Mrs. Steers.  "I wanted to make sure all was well.  I could hardly wait for your arrival.  It's nice to have good tenants again." 

One of the burly movers pushed past them, plopped a box “marked kitchen” onto the floor, and pushed past again.

"What do you think of the furniture?" said Mrs. Steers.  "I hope the dining table and chairs will be adequate. Hmmm…  I don't see the bookcases."

"Sam claimed those.  He drug those off into his bedroom," winked Emily.   "He couldn't resist the idea of creating his own library and finally being able to organize his books."

 "Good to hear.  Well, I'll leave you to your unpacking," said Mrs. Steers.  "Oh, I almost forgot the real reason I came up.   I brought you some food and snacks."  This time, she left through the laundry room.  Sam caught a glimpse of a dark hallway where piles of books lined the walls.  He heard the door’s lock click.

Sam liked Mrs. Steers. Even more, she had lots of books.  She had told them little about herself, remaining reserved, slightly tight-lipped, and somewhat introverted.  Mrs. Steers was proving to be a mystery.

All they really knew about her was she wrote detailed historical fiction and retired as the curator at the local historical society.  Emily had talked with Mrs. Steers about her books. Sam had seen them because his mom had checked one out about the early years of the reign of Czar Nicholas the Second and his family.    Mrs. Steers' husband, Albert, had left her financially comfortable, which maybe explained the cheap rent.   Sam figured she wanted the company more than the money.  Whatever the reason, the apartment was perfect.

The next day, Sam stood in the doorway to his new bedroom, looked at all the boxes, and began to think. To his right was the wall where on the other side was the laundry room. Straight forward was a shallow built-in closet. To the left were the two large windows that overlooked the street and the park. The windows were clean. The plain heavy curtains hung neatly.  Sunbeams hit the polished floor between the cardboard boxes.

Between the wall and his bed, Sam placed a light-weight narrow green-painted set of shelves. The paint was worn in places and peeled revealing darkened wood underneath, but Sam didn't care.

Sam dragged two boxes marked "Sam's books" next to the bed and opened them.  He was greeted by Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone and a graphic novel version of Twenty-thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Next came different illustrated versions of A Christmas Carol, then The House with the Clock in Its Walls by John Bellairs. Sam laid them on his bed so he could see the spines on the bed and put them in alphabetical order.

Sam stopped and had to organize the six titles for Bellairs. "Carroll. Dickens. Jackson." Sam looked at the cover of The Haunting of Hill House, a gift from his Grandpa Henry. A house standing alone among some trees. This book had kept him up a couple of nights after he first read it.

"Lewis. Milne. Poe. Rowling." Another stopping point to make sure the Potter series was in proper order. "Tolkien. Verne. And last Mr. Wells." The cover of The Time Machine was embossed in gold letters, a nice new edition hardback of one of his favorite. Classics mixed with the new. All of Sam's favorites.

With his books in order, one by one, Sam put them on the shelves. He stood back and admired his work. Sam turned and glanced out the window to see Mrs. Steers coming up the sidewalk. A dark- complected guy, at least six feet tall, walked beside her carrying two paper grocery bags. Sam had never seen such a towering man. He was dressed in an grey heavy coat that hung to his knees and wore a Greek fisherman's hat. They made their way up the walk to the house and disappeared under the porch roof.

Sam turned his attention to the desk and the last box to unpack. He opened the box and looked at the hodge-podge of stuff.

"This is going to take a while," said Sam. An hour later, books, desk, and clothes all neatly in their new places, Sam sat down on his bed, ready for a nap in his new bedroom.

Two hours later, Emily woke him for dinner.