The Two-War Time Slip or The Infirmary, Part I (Ch15)
A time slip into a future war rattles Jackson. Theda takes a 'sick' Violet to the Infirmary in Chapter 15 of Theda's Time Machine.
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Theda ran her gloved index finger over the steering wheel of the Cadillac Phaeton, the initial uneasiness of seeing the exact same car from the previous night ebbing. If it were the same car that carried the white-haired man’s murderers into the frozen, pock-marked street, it was impossible to tell. The Phaeton’s interior was void of all human remnants, as if it had just rolled off the assembly line yesterday. Not speck of dust flecked the dashboard. Her finger skimmed the oil and gas gauges. She pulled the gas pump once and turned the key.
Where the bloody hell is Violet? Over the humming engine the dashboard clock ticked. She glanced at it and frowned. The time’s wrong. Before leaving the house, she consulted with the clock on the fireplace mantel, and the hands displayed nine-thirty. That clock was accurate. Harold Evora would never live in a house with a clock reading the wrong time.
This clock read a little past six-thirty. Three hours back. I’ll wind it later.
The front door creaked open and a pathetically limping Violet lurched down the porch steps. Margaret followed, her chartreuse dressing gown a brilliant splash of summer daffodil stalk. Theda’s frown deepened as Violet dragged herself down the week-choked front path. She’d seen this performance before.
“Come back as soon as you’re done. Don’t dawdle on the base!” Margaret called.
Violet sat with a huff and shut the door, cutting off further communication with their mother. “This blasted corset! I had to tie it myself and it’s a good thing my hands are strong or else my waist would’ve been gigantic!”
“And I thought when the government took all the steel from the corsets to make bombs, the women of America received a blessing. And here you are not even appreciating the favor that’s been done for you.” She switched gears and drove.
“I appreciate that men appreciate a waist they can put their hands around.” Violet slumped in the passenger seat, holding her stomach while managing to adjust her shirtwaist to an even level. Theda glanced sideways at an outfit a little too nice for a visit to the doctor.
“What amazes me,” she said, “is that you’ve pulled that same act on Mother countless times since childhood, and she plays along every time. My stomach! My stomach! Then you're off to the races.”
“Yes, but for someone who is supposed to be as smart as you, you’re awfully thick at times.”
“Really? How so?”
“She plays along because she knows it’s the only way to give me what I want without giving me what I want. She's already made it clear that I cannot see Billy seriously, so instead of fighting, which, she says causes the face to wrinkle, she ignores my little dramas. She suspects that if I go behind her back, I'll tire of him eventually and drop it. However, if she made a massive ordeal it would create such a draw that I would elope with him, and the scandal would be enormous.”
“Ridiculous. I’d never give in to you. How do you know Billy will be at the Infirmary?”
“Because he told Mother and Father that his main job is to bring the sick and injured soldiers to the infirmary. It’s only a matter of time before he shows up today. Clever boots, right? If you hadn't been mooning over Jackson, you might have heard this.”
“I don’t moon!”
“Billy told me that at least five soldiers a day collapse and vomit down their uniform.”
“Romantic.” Theda spotted the Infirmary building just as her father had described it. She parked the car and turned the ignition off.
Violet checked her face one last time in her pocket mirror. “Help me out of the car. And make it look real.”
Asa Jackson leaned against a gnarled maple tree and calculated how many seconds it would take him to snap the squirrel’s neck. Two. Run up my leg again, you little bastard. A gray squirrel, busy uncovering the fall’s spoils just beneath the dirt’s surface, flicked its tail and side-eyed the motionless man, performing his own primitive calculations. Jackson’s eyes narrowed, the bright blue glowing in the slits like lasers, at the front door of the Infirmary across the street. His motorcycle leaned against the opposite side of the tree and the engine ticked, cooling. After he left Dr. Evora off at the General building, he wasted no time in swapping the Stanley, that red eye sore that drew too much attention, for the motorcycle. Now, in the web of shadows the maple’s branches cast over him, he crossed his arms and concentrated on stillness. Soldiers strolled by and not one glanced his way. He wasn’t called the Ghost for nothing.
There was no sign of the injured Mennonite being brought into the building, which told him either he was already inside, or else his injuries were being treated elsewhere. Elsewhere in a place where no one could keep a record. Finding him in ‘elsewhere’ will be next to impossible.
His concentration intensified and a sensation of suffocation gripped him, an overwhelming feeling of being crushed. Before he could force his mind into a different direction, the Infirmary, the squirrel and everything before him flashed white, and in his ears a high-pitched whine that threatened to burst his ear drums.
His eyes refocused. Before him was a morning in March of 1945, in both his past and future simultaneously. At his feet squirrels and rabbits in a line of bloody fur, waiting for whichever German soldier was designated cook to start the skinning. The men huddled shoulder to raggy shoulder, but comfort was impossible. The forest’s night rain pattered in steady staccato off bowed helmets, seeping into coats and paralyzing the men in a chill that froze bones. Looking over them, Jackson was reminded of a field of dandelions gone to seed. Despair colored the haunted depths of their gazes, and the knowledge no one wanted to say out loud…that the war was lost…was colder than the Bavarian rain.
What he didn’t know then was that in three days, a squad of American rangers sent to find Jackson and bring him back…
“Huh,” His vision shifted painfully again and the forest snapped into a million particles that cleared in a fraction of a second. His shook his head and before him was the door to the Infirmary. Christ, it happened again. It was only supposed to happen when I traveled. What am I seeing? He breathed, pushing down the range of emotions. He didn’t know whether he wanted to fight, fuck or crawl into a ditch. He only knew that if he didn’t find Thrax and destroy him soon, there was no telling when he’d end up.
The squirrel darted forward and clung to Jackson’s trench boots. One short jerk of his foot sent it scurrying across the dirt and into the street, tail flickering.
A black Cadillac Phaeton swerved into the opposite lane, missing the fleeing squirrel by one tail length, its horn ooga-ing twice. The Cadillac pulled in front of the Infirmary, and the Evora sisters emerged.
What the hell are they doing here? He watched as Theda helped her sister navigate the short staircase. She must be sick. Wasn’t sick last night. Then he remembered the bright conversation between Billy and Violet in the car and Billy, always portraying himself as the valiant savior, entertaining her with stories of his ridiculous life-saving missions to and from the Infirmary. And the last person he ever wanted to see was that little murderer, Theda.
A familiar car horn sounded in the distance and the ambulance sped toward the Infirmary. Jackson slowly stepped backward, putting the tree between him and the road. The ambulance parked in its designated area and Billy jumped out of the driver’s seat, followed by that goddamned Cyril. They moseyed to the back of the car, taking their time. Not the usual speed in which they were trained to deliver their charges. They were too far for Jackson to make out the facial features of them man on the stretcher, but then he saw the soldier’s boots: muddied and covered with white feathers. Bingo. He waited until they were inside, then peeled himself from the tree and made his way to the back door.
GRACIAS
HISTORICAL FICTION STSCK GRACIAS