Time Travelers Never Die Page 11

  “Now? I’ve two left.”

  “Do you have any way of checking them? To make sure they don’t malfunction, too? I mean, suppose the thing had dumped you out in the middle of the Atlantic instead of close to shore?”

  “I don’t think it was a malfunction.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think it was the cardiac principle.”

  Dave took a long time to answer: “It’s hard to believe.”

  “I can take a hint.”

  “So what are you going to do about your father?”

  SINCE Shel had no keys, Dave delivered him instead to the town house. It was shortly after noon when they arrived. By then, Shel had been grumbling for an hour. “Going to have to figure out where he went. Find him after he left.” He got out of the car, glanced toward the front door, and led the way around back.

  “You don’t have a spare key stashed anywhere, do you?” asked Dave. “Maybe in a flowerpot, or something?”

  “No. My other set of keys is inside.” Shel picked up a rock and was about to break a windowpane when Dave raised a hand to stop him. “Hold on,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I have an idea.”

  “We could use one.”

  Dave grinned. “You didn’t try the front door.”

  “I always lock the front door.”

  “Try it anyhow.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

  The front door was mostly chiseled glass with an angled frame. Shel turned the knob. And the door opened. “I’ll be damned.” He stared at Dave. “This is the second time this was supposed to be locked.”

  “How about that?” said Dave.

  “Good day to play the horses.”

  “Shel, I need you to get me one of the converters. Preferably the one I had in New York and Italy, that I know works okay.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it for me, please. And I’ll show you something.”

  They went into Shel’s den. He retrieved a key from a cup that had the Phillies logo and used it to unlock his desk. Then he opened the bottom drawer and removed a converter. “What are you going to do?”

  “Will you set it for me?”

  “Okay.”

  “You don’t think it’ll drop me in the ocean?”

  “We’ll have to see.”

  Dave looked at his watch. “It’s a quarter after twelve. I want to go back fifteen minutes.”

  “Where? Here?” And a light went on for Shel. “My God. And it actually worked?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Brilliant, Dave.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Okay.”

  Shel opened the lid, set the device for default, and pressed the button. Dave and the den faded. The den came back, without Dave. Shel shook his head, amazed at the possibilities of the device. He came out of the aura, walked into the entryway, and unlocked the glass door. Then he went back to the den and returned to his base time.

  “Very good,” said Dave.

  “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. But I made up my mind that when we got inside, we’d use one of the converters to go back and unlock the door.”

  “No more broken windows.”

  “Nessuno.”

  “SO where,” asked Dave, “do we begin to look for him?”

  “He brought a book home with him.”

  “What book was that?”

  “I’m trying to think. Something about the wind. It was by John Lewis.” He walked over and googled Lewis’s name. Walking with the Wind.

  “The civil rights era,” said Dave.

  “Seems like odd reading for a physicist.”

  “My dad was a lot more than a physicist.”

  “He was that. He’s starting to sound like the ultimate Renaissance man.”

  “Yes. But I don’t know that it helps us.”

  “Shel, it might be where he went.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “John Lewis was the leader of the Selma march.”

  “Selma—”

  “It was the turning point in the civil rights era.”

  Shel knew there’d been a demonstration of some sort in Selma. But he didn’t remember any details.

  “Bloody Sunday,” said Dave. “The marchers got attacked by police. Without provocation.”

  They exchanged glances. “You may be right,” said Shel.

  CHAPTER 11

  I’ve seen the promised land. I may not get there with you, but I want you to know tonight that we as a people will get to the promised land.

  —MARTIN LUTHER KING JR., APRIL 3, 1968, THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS ASSASSINATION

  THEY arrived on the side of a highway as a tractor-trailer thundered past. Dave landed upright, but the sudden blast of air knocked Shel off his feet. He went down, rolled over, and came up sitting in the grass. “Eventually,” he said, “I should be able to get the hang of this.”

  It was 10:00 A.M., Sunday, March 7, 1965. Shel got up and watched a car race by in the opposite direction. Tractor-trailers haven’t changed much over a half century, he thought, but cars have. It was an oversized green convertible.

  He took out a compass. “Northeast is that way.” He indicated the direction the truck had taken. “This is probably Route Twenty-two, which goes directly through Selma, then turns north.”

  The air was cool. Windy. A few clouds were scattered across the sky.

  “The day that started the revolution,” said Dave. At that moment, hundreds of people, tired of discrimination, tired of not being able to vote, tired of being pushed aside because their skin was the wrong color, were gathering at the Brown Chapel in Selma.

  Shel nodded. “Maybe we should march with them.” He intended it as a joke, but Dave didn’t laugh. They’d watched the video record, had seen the troopers attack. That was enough. “Best for us,” he continued, “is to just hang around the church for a bit. Meet some of them. Feel what it’s like. And then get out of the way.”

  “I guess.” Dave looked uncomfortable. But why not? They were on the cusp of one of the pivotal moments in American history, but a price was going to be paid.

  “This is our chance to meet Rosa Parks,” said Shel. “And Hosea Williams.” They started walking. Uphill along the side of the road.

  Dave had his hands in his pockets. “You know,” he said, “we talked about going to the Colosseum to watch the gladiators. This is worse. These people don’t get to defend themselves.”

  Another car was approaching. One of those late-fi fties models with four headlights and a set of tailfins. They held out their thumbs, hoping for a ride. But the car swept past.

  A few minutes later, a pickup stopped. A couple of kids. “We’re going into town,” the driver said. “You can ride in back if you like. It’s about five miles.” He raised a Coke bottle and took a gulp. “Where you headed?” He looked barely old enough to have a license.

  “Selma,” said Shel. “That is it up ahead, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Where in Selma you goin’?”

  “The Brown Chapel. It’s just a few blocks off Broad Street.”

  The driver made a face. “That’s not a white church, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “You guys part of that crowd? Maybe you ought to get down and walk.”

  Shel showed him a ten. “We’d appreciate the transportation.”

  The kid thought about it. Took the money. “Okay. Climb on.” They pulled away with a jerk. Mostly they drove past cotton fields and farms. After a few minutes, they saw occasional houses and gas stations. Street signs identified Highway 22 as West Dallas Avenue. A large well-kept golf course appeared, the Selma Country Club. And finally they were at the city limits.

  Selma looked typically Southern, long streets shaded by maple trees, pleasant homes with manicured lawns, signboards urging passersby to get right with the Lord. On this day, Confederate flags flew eve
rywhere.

  The center of town was home mostly to stores and warehouses. People on the sidewalk turned and watched as they passed. A few waved to the kids in front.

  Traffic got heavy, and the pickup pulled over to the curb. The kids looked at them and shook their heads. “This is as close as I want to get,” said the driver. “The church is over that way.” He pointed northwest.

  They got down. The passenger made a sucking sound. “If I were you guys,” he said, “I’d stay out of it.” They pulled away, made a left at the next intersection, and disappeared.

  “Appreciate the ride,” said Dave.

  They walked a couple of blocks to Broad Street, which was the commercial heart of Selma, such as it was. There was a bank, the El Ran chero Café, a drugstore, and a movie theater. On this day, police were everywhere. East on Broad, the city extended a few more blocks, then opened out into a highway. That would be US 80, which the demonstrators planned to follow on their march to Montgomery, the state capital.

  They crossed Broad Street and entered the black section, located on the north side. Streets were unpaved, houses lay in a general state of disintegration, and trash was scattered everywhere. They walked three or four blocks north, then turned west. A few minutes later, they were at the Brown Chapel.

  It was an attractive Romanesque church with twin towers. Several hundred people, mostly black but with some whites, had gathered outside. They’d spilled onto a ball field and some basketball courts. A few angry-l ooking whites stood across the street, watching. They made obscene gestures at Shel and Dave as they passed. Shel thought he heard a rifle bolt slide forward.

  “Don’t look at them,” Dave said. “Just keep walking.”

  In the church grounds, a few people were showing others how to protect themselves if attacked. Cover vitals. Head down. No violence.

  “I don’t see him,” said Shel.

  There were a lot of kids with the demonstrators. Young ones. Seven, eight, nine years old. The news footage of the police assault had concentrated mainly on the leaders of the march, mostly adult males. Shel had seen a few women attacked, as well. And he’d known there’d been children. But somehow they hadn’t been the focus.

  An older black man in clerical garb shook their hands. “Welcome, brothers,” he said. And a young woman smiled at them. She was watching two boys, about eight or nine, tossing a ball back and forth.

  Shel leaned close to Dave. “Who’d bring kids to something like this?”

  A white guy, standing a few feet away beside a post, looked in their direction. He might have been about twenty years old. “Maybe because it means so much,” he said. “Everything’s on the table here.”

  “Worth a kid’s life?”

  “As things are, these kids don’t have lives.” He moved their way. He was about Shel’s size, compact, with an inner energy that suggested you could trust him. “Anyhow, we’re glad to see you. We need all the help we can get.”

  Shel nodded. “My name’s Shelborne. This is Dave Dryden.”

  “Josh Myers,” said the stranger. “Good luck. Keep your head down out there.”

  “Josh Myers?” Shel examined his features. Hard to tell. “You from Tucson, by any chance?”

  The guy’s eyes went wide. “Yes. How’d you know?”

  Shel tried to think of an explanation. “Somebody back there”—he gestured toward the chapel—“mentioned you were from there.” He changed the subject: “They’re not serious about marching all the way to Montgomery, are they? It’s sixty miles.”

  “No. I think they expect to get arrested before they get very far out of town. If these nitwits don’t shoot us first.” He looked over at a guy across the street who was pointing a rifle in their direction, taking pretend target practice.

  Shel tried to look unmoved. “I guess it’s especially dangerous for white people,” he said.

  Myers shook his head. “Not really. When it’s over, if we’re still standing, we get to go home. Everybody else has to go on living with it.”

  After they’d moved on, Shel asked Dave if he’d recognized Myers. “Sure,” he said. He was the guy who, almost a half century later, would write the definitive history of the second Iraq war, They Never Threw the Roses.

  SHEL had been glad to see whites among the demonstrators. They included a handful of nuns. A couple of ambulances pulled onto the church parking lot. There were already two in front of the building. Medics climbed out. “Where are they from?” Shel asked a man standing next to him.

  “They’re volunteers,” he said. “They came in from New York yesterday. They’re setting up inside the parsonage. Just in case.”

  “My name’s Shelborne.” Shel put out his hand. “You’re with the marchers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good luck.” And, after an awkward moment: “This is Dave.”

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Shelborne.” He shook the hand. Shook Dave’s. “I’m Harry. Thanks for standing with us.”

  Shel felt a charge at that. “Thanks for standing with us.” Well, in a way they were. They represented history’s judgment.

  “Like hell,” said Dave. “We’re just hanging out. Pretending to be part of this.”

  “Hey, why are you getting annoyed with me?”

  “I’m not a hero; I just play one on TV.”

  “C’mon, Dave, relax. At least we’re here.” They introduced themselves to Ralph Abernathy, and when he asked where they were from, Shel wanted to say, “The next millennium. When things will be better.”

  And there was Rosa Parks, talking to a group of young girls, barely teens.

  And Andrew Young. Surrounded by reporters, white and black.

  “They all seem upbeat,” said Shel.

  “It’s because they don’t know what’s waiting for them.”

  “You think it would change anything if they did?”

  “Don’t know. I can tell you it would stop me.”

  “Me, too,” said Shel.

  They wandered among the crowd for the better part of an hour, shaking hands and wishing everyone luck. The demonstrators responded in kind, and Shel felt good. Warm. Respected.

  “We’re fakes,” Dave insisted.

  “Come on, champ. Loosen up.”

  “Look,” Dave said, “there’s Amelia Boynton.”

  “Who’s Amelia Boynton?” Shel had never heard the name.

  “In a lot of ways, Shel, she was the heart and soul of the movement. She was the lady who wouldn’t let go. Who kept pushing.”

  When Shel went over to talk with her, Dave stayed where he was. Amelia smiled. Thanked him for being there. “I know it’s not easy,” she said.

  Shel nodded. Wished her luck. Dave’s face was unreadable. Shel was getting a bad feeling.

  A guy with a microphone announced they were ready to start. People began forming a line, two abreast. John Lewis issued a brief statement to the reporters. Then they knelt, and Andrew Young led them in prayer.

  Two of the nuns passed close. Smiled at Shel. “God bless you,” one of them said.

  Somebody else shook Dave’s hand. “Appreciate your being here.” The line began to move. Dave looked at them, looked at Shel. “I don’t like standing aside.”

  “I know. Maybe it was a mistake, coming here. Maybe you were right, and we ought to just stay away from this kind of stuff.”

  Lewis was up front. In a light trench coat. Hosea Williams walked beside him.

  THE ambulances, four of them, pulled in behind the marchers, keeping pace. They walked quietly. A few people, watching as they passed, cheered, and some sang. “People get ready; there’s a train a-comin’.” But they were joined by only a few isolated voices among the marchers.

  They moved along Water Street, out of the black area. Now there were whites waving Confederate flags. And sometimes wielding guns. The few voices went silent.

  They turned right at Alabama Street and marched along the river. Shel and Dave followed. Shel wanted to warn them what was coming.


  Dave hesitated. Closed his eyes.

  “What?” said Shel.

  “I can’t deal with this.”

  “Okay. Let’s go back.”

  Dave showed no indication he’d heard. “I can’t stand here and not do something.”

  “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Yeah, there is.”

  “Dave—”

  He lurched out into the street. Toward the moving line.

  Shel hurried after him, grabbed hold of his arm, tried to talk sense to him. But Dave shook him off.

  Several marchers looked in their direction.

  “I can’t walk away from this.”

  In the line, two elderly women watched them approach. “Dave, don’t be a nitwit. You can’t change anything.”

  “Maybe that’s the point.” He crossed the last few feet and got in behind the two women.

  Shel backed off and watched him go. Somewhere, a voice said, “You don’t need no baggage; you just get on board.”

  Dave was one of the tallest people in the crowd. He’d make an easy target.

  At Broad Street, they turned left onto US 80 and started toward the Edmund Pettis Bridge.

  SHEL pushed ahead, trying to angle himself so he could keep an eye on Dave. But it was hard to get through the crowd lining the street. Then he became aware of movement behind him. Two men were following him. One was the guy who’d been pretending to pick off people with his rifle. The weapon now was nowhere to be seen. But the other wore a large floppy hat and carried a shotgun.

  When their eyes met, the one with the shotgun grinned. “You left your momma back there, didn’t you?”

  Shel kept walking.

  “Hey,” said his partner, “we asked you a question.”

  Shel fingered the converter.

  “You did ask him a question, didn’t you, Alvin?”

  “I don’t think the son of a bitch is friendly, Will.”

  “Why don’t we ask him?”

  It was enough for Shel. He disconnected the converter from his belt. Hoped they wouldn’t think he was pulling a gun. Set it for the same location, ten minutes earlier.