Man gone. Elise—Babbie—trying to blow the horn herself. Charming. Can’t. Her cheeks puff helplessly. She is delightful. Can she possibly be the woman who gazed at me so gravely? Up there, she is all champagne and sunlight.
Here comes the minister. He’s berating her, thinks she’s a Gypsy. She tells him—Godamighty, what is she telling him? Her burr is thick now too. The play could use subtitles. Not that I am paying that much attention to the dialogue when she is onstage. I am too enamored by the sight and sound of her; the grace of her movements; the music of her voice.
All right, pay attention. Something about … lost? Ah! She’s asking him to blow the horn three times so her father can find her.
He does too! Funny. He notices people in the (offstage) town square. He’s confused. She says the alarm was given. “After I forbade it?” he says.
The look on his face. She just told him he gave the alarm. He’s furious, throws down the horn, and chases Babbie off.
Enter Lord Rintoul and Capt. Halliwell. The actor playing Rintoul is the one from the Breakfast Room. Jepson, was it? They’re “looking” into Thrums and saying they see the minister exhorting the crowds to fling down their weapons. Some Gypsy woman is telling them to fight. Halliwell promises Rintoul he’ll have the woman in jail before the night is out. I doubt it.
Gavin back. Rintoul thanks him. A soldier enters. The ringleaders have fled. Rintoul and Halliwell exit angrily. Minister alone.
She’s back, my lovely Elise. I’ll lose more plot while staring at her. She’s too dedicated. She isn’t Elise right now, she’s Babbie—totally. That has to be her secret; complete identification with her roles.
Where are we? She has on a bonnet and a long cloak, I forgot to mention. She’s being chased. Help me, she begs the minister. Avaunt! he cries. Two soldiers enter.
That’s funny. She’s grabbed his arm and, in perfect English, said, “Introduce me, dear.” The minister, Dishart, gaping at her. She’s telling the sergeant that, on such a night, a woman should be no place but “by her husband’s side.” Minister speechless. Shakes himself loose now. “Sergeant, I must inform you—”
“Yes, yes, love,” she breaks in hurriedly. “About the Gypsy woman in the Gypsy dress.”
Minister confounded as she points offstage. “She came stealing out here and then ran back that way,” she tells the sergeant.
Dishart tries again. “Sergeant, I must—”
“Darling, let us go home,” she breaks in.
“Darling!” he cries. She smiles. How I adore that smile.
“Yes, love,” she says.
Soldiers gone. You said you were my wife, says Dishart. “You didn’t contradict,” she says. “No, I didn’t,” he mumbles.
She says she’ll take the blame if the soldiers find out about his “awful conduct.” He objects. He doesn’t want her in prison. He’s falling already. Is it any wonder? Not only am I in love with her but the audience is as well. Sounds of affection for her ripple through the room like waves. Her charm is irresistible. It springs across the proscenium. She is magnetic.
She’s giving him a flower from her waist—leaving. Don’t go, Elise.
Gavin looks at flower. Man rushes in and grabs it, throws it down. Lift it if you dare! he cries. Dishart picks it up and puts it in his lapel as he strolls off. Curtain. End of act one.
Intermission. I am thinking of her acting. It is like her personality. Such candor in it. Honesty. Economy of style. No curlicues. I was afraid she might be like some of the actors in the play—flamboyant, overripe. Not so. There are no tricks. She is unpretentious. Her sense of the droll is an endless marvel. She is charming and delightful because she seems so charmed and so delighted. There is a mischievous gaiety about her that fairly bubbles. Her coquetry comes in spurts and flashes, unexpectedly. She conveys, always, confidence in her female powers, a strong—though tolerant—awareness of the minister’s vulnerability; is that why women in the audience like her so much? Her every move is made with piquant delicacy. And, now and then, there is a hint of some other string being bowed, creating a deeper vibration. All the elements of a fine tragedienne are there, no doubt about it. They will emerge naturally, however. I will have nothing to do with it.
What more can I say? That no matter how vividly she plays her part, there is always a sense of more (much more) in check? There is. I read in a book once—no, I mustn’t hark to things like that anymore.
Well, just this once—it is so pertinent. This book made mention of an energy field emitted by actors and actresses; an extension of the so-called aura. This energy fields—said the book—can, under the right circumstances (an outstanding rapport between viewer and performer), expand so infinitely that it encompasses the entire audience; such has been witnessed by psychics. Having seen Elise, I can believe it.
She has enveloped all of us.
And now I—
I stopped writing as a voice spoke my name and, looking around, saw the man who had taken my ticket holding out a folded slip of paper. “This is for you, sir,” he said.
Thanking him, I took the paper and he turned away. I put the fountain pen and writing paper in my inside coat pocket, unfolded the slip of paper, and read: Collier, I must speak to you immediately concerning Miss McKenna’s health. This is a matter of life and death so do not fail me. I am waiting in the lobby. W. F. Robinson.
The message shook me. A matter of life and death? Apprehensively, I stood and hurried to the doorway, down the corridor. What could possibly be wrong with Elise? I had just finished watching her on stage and she’d looked radiant. Still, Robinson was nothing if not totally concerned about her welfare.
I reached the lobby and looked around. No sign of Robinson. I moved across the crowded floor, looking for him; maybe he was waiting in a corner. I turned my gaze in all directions, searching. Heaven aid my poor naivete, I didn’t even get the message when two bulky men converged on me. “Collier?” asked one of them; an older man with protuberant, yellow-coated teeth, a bushy, drooping mustache.
“Yes?” I answered.
His fingers clamped on my right arm so hard it made me gasp. “Let’s walk,” he said.
“What?” I muttered, staring at him. How gullible can one man be? Even then, I didn’t understand.
“Let’s walk,” he told me, his upper lip drawn back from a humorless smile. He began to lead me toward the front entrance, the other man gripping my left arm just as painfully.
My first reaction was astonishment, my second, anger—at Robinson for having tricked me, at myself for having been so credulous. I tried to pull my arms free but their grip was unbreakable. “I would not resist,” the older man muttered. “You will regret it if you do.”
“For sure,” the other man said. I glanced at him. He was about my age, cleanly shaven, his cheeks red and chapped-looking. Like his associate, he was heavy-set, his suit fitting too snugly. He regarded me with pale blue eyes. “You just come quietly,” he added.
A new reaction struck me: one of disbelief, amusement. This was too ridiculous. “Let go of me,” I said. I almost felt like laughing.
“You will be less amused before long,” the older man said. All amusement fled with his words. I stared at him, smelling the odor of whiskey on his breath.
We were almost to the front door now. Once outside, I’d have no chance at all. “Let go of me or I’ll shout for help,” I told them. “Now.”
I caught my breath in shock as the younger one pressed close to me, his right hand in the pocket of his suit coat, and I felt something hard against my side. “Make one sound and your life is forfeit, Collier,” he said.
I gaped at his impassive features as we neared the door. This isn’t happening, I thought. It was the only defense my mind could summon. Such far-fetched melodramatics had to be unreal. Abducted by a pair of burly thugs? It was too absurd to be believed.
I had to believe it though, for it was happening—the front door being opened, the two men leading me outside onto t
he porch. Reaction hit me suddenly. Had I traveled seventy-five years to be with Elise only to have it end like this? “No,” I said, and tried to yank my arms loose, managing to free my left. “You’re not—”
My voice was cut off by a gagging cry—my own—as the older man spun rapidly to face me and drove a fist of iron into my abdomen. I pitched against him, doubling over, lines of pain radiating through my chest and stomach, darkness pulsing at my eyes. I felt them almost lift me from my feet as they led me down the steps. I had a vague awareness of people passing by and tried to ask for help but my breath was gone. I couldn’t speak.
Then we were on the walk, angling across the entry road toward the strand, a cold wind on my face reviving me. I sucked in air. “—not done that, Collier.” Words flared into audibility. “That was a fool mistake.”
“Let go of me,” I said. For a few seconds I thought it was raining, then realized the blow had driven tears from my eyes. “Let go.”
“Not just yet,” the older man replied.
We were on the plank walk now, heading toward the bathhouse. I tried to clear my head and think. There had to be some way out of this. I swallowed, coughed. “If it’s money,” I said, “I’ll pay you more than Robinson did.”
“We know no Robinson,” the younger man replied, his fingers gouging at my arm.
For several moments, I believed him, then recalled the note which had gotten me into this. “Yes, you do,” I said. “And I’m telling you I’ll pay you more than he did if you’ll—”
“We are going for a walk, young gentleman,” the older man broke in.
I glanced across my shoulder at the hotel and a rush of panic filled me. “Please,” I said. “Don’t do this.”
“We are doing it,” the older man said, his tone making me shudder. Suddenly I was aware of how different he was from me. Enmity or not, there were aspects of Robinson I could identify with. This man—and his partner—was totally foreign to me, a type of 1896 man with whom I had nothing whatever in common. He might have been from Mars, so alien in attitude was he. For all I knew, he might be capable of killing me. The thought was shocking. Bracing myself, I asked him where he meant to take me.
“You’ll find out in due time,” he replied. “Now be quiet or be struck again.”
A shiver laced across my back. Was it possible that Robinson had ordered them to murder me? The idea was horrifying but not inconceivable. What simpler way to rid himself of me? Had I misjudged him that completely, thinking him no more than a bully when, in actuality, he was prepared to stop at nothing to protect his interest in Elise?
I began to speak, then stopped, grimacing, as their fingers dug into my arms again. Physical resistance was out of the question; I saw that with a chilling clarity. If there was any escape from this, it would have to be arrived at not through brawn but cunning.
I looked aside abruptly as we passed the bathhouse; the door was opening and a young couple emerging. Inside, I saw a balcony and, beyond that, two large concrete tanks of water, one with a long, wooden slide declining into it. In the warm-water pool (I could see steam rising from it) two boys were riding a barrel horse, giggles ricocheting off the walls and ceiling as they rocked from side to side. Observing them at poolside was an old man with a white beard wearing a black two-piece bathing suit, the top half of which had a high neck and half-sleeves, the bottom half of which covered his legs to the knees.
Then the door was closing and the couple moving toward us. I stared at the young man, wondering if he were capable of helping. The man at my right seemed to sense my thoughts for his grip clenched my arm, making me hiss with pain. “Say nothing,” he warned.
My body shook with frustrated breath as the couple passed us, moving toward the hotel. “That was wise,” the older man said.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“Old Mexico,” the young one said.
“What?”
“We are taking you there to cut you into pieces we will drop into a deep well.”
I shuddered. “Very funny.” I was not at all sure he was joking though.
“You don’t believe me?” he goaded. “You think I would lie to you?”
I looked back at the hotel miserably.
“Do you?” he asked, prodding my side.
“Go to hell,” I mumbled.
His fingers dug so deep into my flesh it made me cry out. “I don’t like young swells who talk to me like that,” he said. “I think you want another belly punch.” Again, the fingers dug in. “Do you, Collier?”
“All right,” I said. “You’ve made your point.”
The pressure of his fingers eased. “You know what we are going to do with you?” he said; it was not a question. “We are going to take you out in a boat, tie an anchor to you, and drop you in the ocean for the sharks to eat.”
“Now, Jack,” the older man said. “Stop scaring him like that. You will make his hair turn white before his time.”
“This is his time,” Jack said.
It was at that moment that the true horror of the situation struck me and I looked across my shoulder at the hotel, unable to restrain a sound of dread as I saw how far away it was. “He’s groaning, Al,” the younger man said. “You think he’s sick?”
I paid no attention to him, swallowed by despair. Was this the finish then? Was my long journey to Elise to end in brutal murder on a beach? How could I have underestimated Robinson so blindly? The last words he’d spoken to me were that he was able to “compass my demise.” He was—and had—and I would lose Elise forever, having spent a few short moments with her. Those books would not be written differently, her life would be exactly as I’d read of it. Her “Coronado scandal” was already over. We would never see each other again until that night in 1953, when, sitting at a party in Columbia, Missouri, she would see my face on a nineteen-year-old boy and, hours later, die. This was all I had accomplished on my journey—an endless, unhappy circle, an unceasing round of traveling back to be killed, then to be born and live to the day when I travel back to be killed again.
I turned to the older man. “Please,” I said. “Don’t do this. You don’t understand. I have come here from 1971 to be with Miss McKenna. We love each other and—”
“Ain’t that sweet,” Jack said, a sound of pseudosympathy in his voice.
“It’s true,” I said, ignoring him. “I really did it. I came back through time to—”
“Boo-hoo-hoo,” said Jack.
“Damn you!” I cried.
“No, damn you!” he said. I felt myself go cold as I saw his right hand plunge into his coat. I’m dead, I thought.
“Here now.” The older man let go of me to grab at him. “You off your head? So close to the hotel?”
“I don’t care!”Jack told him. “I want to put a bullet in his swelled head.”
“Keep that pistol in your pocket, Jack, or, so help me God, I’ll smash in your face,” the older man said, in a voice that told me instantly how much more of a man—and menace—he was.
Jack glared at him, unmoving. The older man patted his shoulder. “Come on, boy,” he said. “Use your noodle. You want to bring the law down on us?”
“No swell curses me and gets away with it,” Jack muttered.
“He’s upset, Jack. Can you blame him?”
“He’ll be dead as well, I’m bound,” Jack answered.
“That’s as may be,” Al said. “Let’s get on now.” His words chilled me far more than Jack’s had because I knew they were spoken from confidence rather than bluster. If he chose to kill me, I’d be killed; that simple.
We started off again and I looked at Al in pained surprise as he chuckled. “What was that you said?” he asked. “I never heard a man beg for his life that way before.” I got an impression of long years spent in killing men and shivered.
I wasn’t going to answer him, then decided I had nothing to gain from silence. “I’m telling you the truth,” I said. “I came to this hotel seventy-five years ag
o—in 1971. I decided to—”
“When were you born?” he interrupted.
“Nineteen thirty-six.”
A wheezing laugh escaped his lips, whiskey fumes clouding over me. “Well then,” he said, “if you are not yet born, how can you be walking here beside us?”
“He’s a loony, let’s get rid of him,” Jack said.
The realization of how difficult it would be to explain the enigma of what I had done filled me with distress. Still, I had no other choice. “Listen to me,” I said. “I came to this hotel on November 14, 1971. I saw a photograph of Miss McKenna and fell in love with her.”
“Aw,” said Jack.
I gritted my teeth, continuing. “I did research on time and willed myself back to 1896. I did,” I added quickly, seeing Al smile. “I swear I did. I was born on February 20, 1936. I went—”
I broke off as Al patted me roughly on the shoulder. “You’re a good lad, Collier, but you’re off your nut.” I knew then the hopelessness of trying to make him understand. Which left me nothing but the possibility that, in moving so far from the hotel, I would lose my hold on 1896 and escape from them that way; which was less than nothing.
The boardwalk ended and we stepped down to the sandy beach, continuing south. I looked at the hotel again. It seemed miles away. As I stared at it, a sudden, hard resolve took hold of me: I would not go down easily.
“You don’t have to keep holding my arms,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere.” I tried to make my tone one of bitter defeat.
“That is true, you are not,” Al said. He released my arm. Jack did not let go at first. I waited tensely. After another minute or so, he dropped his hand.
The moment he did, I lunged forward and began to run as fast as I could, expecting, at any second, to hear the explosion of Jack’s pistol and feel the jarring impact of a bullet hitting my back. “No, Jack!” I heard Al cry and knew my fear was justified. I tried to weave as I ran, lifting my legs as high as I could, knowing that my only remaining chance lay in outdistancing them; a reasonable possibility, it seemed, since both of them were so much bulkier than I.