an exaggerated bow said, “You grace us with your presence, Miss Alexander.”
Jane did a mock curtsy back. “This is the place to be if one wants to learn the inner workings of the world, is it not, President Stevens?”
He smiled at her. “That it is, dear lady, that it is.”
Prescott looked quickly around the room and then raised his voice and said somberly, “Mr. Stan Walker left the club this evening. He asked me to say good-bye for him.”
No one spoke. The grandfather clock chimed 10 p.m.; watches were taken out of vest pockets, as the guests decided it was getting late. They headed toward the door, but Stevens put a hand on Bill’s shoulder.
“Mr. Scott, will you stay behind? I’d have a word with you, if possible.”
Bill looked questioning but said, “Certainly, President Stevens.” He mentally shrugged his shoulders and thought, it’s not like I have a warm reception waiting for me back at the apartment.
They turned back into the den. Prescott pulled a thick velvet sash on the wall, and Matt appeared.
“Sir, you rang?”
“Yes, Matt, another brandy for me and whatever Mr. Scott prefers.”
“Another brandy is fine,” Bill replied.
As Matt closed the door behind him, Stevens walked toward two wingback chairs in front of the fire and settled into one. “I’ve had a long day and shall have my nightcap seated,” he said. He indicated the other chair to Bill and said, “Sit, sir. Relax.”
Bill sat in the warm chair. Matt returned, served the brandies, and Stevens raised his toward Bill and said, “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Bill responded.
Prescott took a sip and said thoughtfully, “Two years tonight.”
“Excuse me?”
“Two years tonight. It’s your anniversary, sir. Two years ago this evening you joined the club.”
Bill smiled. “Yes, two years tonight. I was wondering why you asked me to stay behind. Is this the norm for someone’s anniversary?”
“No, sir, it’s not. May I address you by your given name? William, is it not?”
“My friends call me Bill, but if you prefer William, that’s fine.”
“Bill it is and I’m Prescott, at least when we are alone. I must keep to being the head of the club in front of the members, and perceived familiarity breeds relaxation of the club’s rules. Would you agree?”
Bill nodded. “Oh I do agree, Prescott. May I ask why Mr. Walker left the club?”
“Yes, you may. In fact, I took his key. He was asked to leave. He could not keep the rule. He kept speaking out of ‘club time.’ But you knew that didn’t you?”
Bill looked at him nervously. “Yes, I knew that. Do you think I spoke out of ‘club time’ with him tonight? Because if you do . . .”
“No, not at all, Bill. In fact, I believe that you have never slipped up.”
“Then why did you ask me to stay? Surely not just to ask me to renew my membership?”
Prescott took a deep pull of his drink and put it down. He leaned toward Bill. “No, not to renew. I have no problem filling the club’s memberships. There’s a very long waiting list of potential members. In fact, I’d like to ask you to play a little game with me.”
Bill was puzzled. “What kind of a game?”
“Well, pretty much the same kind of game you play every time you enter the club. The game of make-believe.”
Bill raised his eyebrows. “Make-believe?”
Prescott sat, elbows on knees, chin resting on his clasped hands. “Yes, Bill, make-believe. Every time you come here you pretend you are back in the 1860s. A time of quiet streets, no blaring radio, TV, car horns, a make-believe time trip back to gentler times. Am I right?”
Now Bill leaned forward. “Then yes, I do play a make-believe game. I guess we all do.”
“Some of us better than others. Some of us are so good at this, that if they suddenly found themselves back in 1863, they could carry on as though they belonged there.”
“I guess you’re right.”
Then with a sense of purpose, Prescott rose and said, “Bill, follow me to my office.”
They went up the heavily carpeted staircase that was off-limits to club members. An ornate key attached to Prescott by a thick gold chain around his neck opened a heavy mahogany door. Gas lamps lit the room. All the furniture, except for the television, was from the 1800s.
Bill whistled in admiration. “Federal pieces! Where did you ever get them? They are priceless! I know. I have a coat tree, and it set me back some. These look brand new.”
Prescott smiled. “Would you like this desk?” he said as he patted the top.
Bill’s eyes opened wide. “Sir, I’d have to sell my coat-tree, car and more to afford this beauty.”
“It’s yours, Bill. No charge. I can get another anytime I want.”
Bill looked confused. He knew the market fairly well and was certain there was no way there could be two desks like this one. Then with grin he said, “All right, Prescott, did you invite me here to show me that you have the mid-eighteen hundreds furniture market cornered?”
Grinning back, Prescott went around to a chair behind his desk and motioned for Bill to sit in another of the period pieces. “Please, Bill, sit. And I mean it. This desk is yours. No charge. You see I watch each and every member of the club. I watch to see how well they stay in character. You are simply the best! In all the time the club has been around, I’ve never seen a person adapt so well. When you are here, you are truly in the 1860s. You are simply, the best.”
“So I win the antique desk because I’m good at keeping the rule?”
“First of all, it’s not an antique, it’s modern,” Stevens said.
“You mean it’s a knockoff? A copy made in China or somewhere?”
“No, I mean it’s a modern piece for the 1860s.”
“But this is the 21st century . . . not the 19th century.”
“Where? You mean here? In this club?” Prescott said. “But you say you believe this is the 1800s every time you come here.”
“Yes, but, I mean, it’s really 2011, not 1863,” Bill said.
Prescott pointed to the door they had come in. “Out there, the way we came in, that’s 2011.” He turned and pointed to another door on the far wall. “Out that door is the year 1863.”
Bill looked at the far door, then back at Prescott. “Out that door is 1863?”
Prescott nodded. “Yes. And that’s where I can get another desk, another wingback chair or clothes tree. Right out there.”
Bill laughed. “Well, Prescott . . . you got me. I love the club, I really do. And I kind of had you on a pedestal before this evening. But now . . . well, I really don’t know what to do. I wish we could have kept this on the level it was before tonight. It was more enjoyable just coming here and playing dress up.” He got up to leave.
“So, now you’re quitting?” Prescott said with annoyance. “Taking the easy way out? I can’t believe I was wrong. I had you as the adventurous type. An ex-U.S. Navy SEAL turned reporter whose hobby is the 1800s. Liked it so much he would jump at the chance if he could to live in that time period. Am I wrong?”
“No, you are right,” Bill answered. “But I don’t believe what you are proposing is true. I think this is some kind of a test . . . a test to see if I’ll talk out of ‘club time,’ right?”
“Couldn’t be more mistaken, sir. What I’m proposing is true. And I believe you’re interested in hearing me out.” He looked intently at Bill. “I’ve studied you, and I pride myself on my accurate assessments of people. What I’m telling you is something that the average person just could not comprehend.”
Bill sat back down. The room’s curtains were open and he looked out the window at the rain. “Well, the weather tells me to stay at least until it lets up. So I might as well hear you out.”
Prescott seemed relieved and sat back. “Good, Bill, good. Now, I’d like to tell you a story. I come from 1863. I was like
you in a sense . . . a happy bachelor with a good job. I was a history teacher in New York. One day a man introduced himself to me in a restaurant I frequented. His name was John Smith, so he said, and he also was a history teacher. He told me he was the father of one of my past students, Harold Smith, who was killed in the war, but always spoke highly of me.” He paused a moment then continued as he sat forward. “I felt that he was a sick man for he constantly fought for air as he spoke.” He sat back as he went on. “He visited me for short visits over the next few weeks, and after gaining my confidence, he told me a different story . . . an entirely different story, believe me! I was, as you are, shocked to hear it. But I did, as you did, sit back and listen. He said that his real name was James Prescott. He said he was a future Prescott, a future relative of mine. He claimed to live in the year 2060! I thought it was preposterous and told him so. He said he understood my stance, of course, but was willing to prove it to me. Would I accompany him to his home? As I said, he had gained my confidence and, as it was a short carriage ride, I accompanied him to his home.” He grinned as he patted the desk once again. “This very building.”
The grandfather clock chimed eleven times and the storm outside was still in full force.
Prescott does tell a good yarn, Bill thought. He’s probably a lonely guy with good taste in furniture and bad taste in sci-fi stories, hoping I can get it published for him.
Prescott continued, “James Prescott, of the future, showed me a door in his den and said it opened to the future. I, of course, was a non-believer, as are you, until he opened the door. He