A Token Gift

If Eddie Barnes had ever thought about it, he would have admitted that he had a good life. He was almost fifteen, which was a great age, and he wasn't bad looking: tall, on the skinny side, with blue eyes, brown hair, and only a few pimples. He even had a terrific relationship with his mother. The one sadness was the piercing absence of his father, who had died the year before, but he and Mom talked about him often, and that helped, somehow. He had two best friends, and when they weren't suffering through classes at The West Side Preparatory School for Boys, they roamed Manhattan like gypsies. That was the best of all — Eddie lived in New York City, and how cool was that? The answer, which hit him every time he walked out of his apartment building on East 32nd Street, was very. There was only one problem.

Mrs. Finster, his history teacher.

"Finster the Spinster" they called her, even though she was married, and — boy! — did she have it in for Eddie. It had all started with his paper on the Civil War.

"Edward," she had announced, "you have accomplished something I would never have thought possible, not in all my years of teaching." Eddie had felt himself swell with pride, only to be dashed by her next words. "You have made the Civil War boring. Worse than that, you have made Abraham Lincoln boring. What, young man, did you use for research?"

"Well, uh, I —" Eddie had stammered as he recalled slamming the paper together after staying up half the night watching TV.

"I smell Google," she had said, fixing him with a beady gaze. "This reeks of the Internet." She tapped his neatly printed pages with a neatly manicured fingernail. "Go to the library and get some decent biographies. Books, Edward. Researched and written by actual human beings with a point of view and an emotional investment in their subject. History is about people's lives. Find out about this man's life — and have it to me by Friday."

So Eddie had walked, sullenly, past the stone lions into the main branch of the New York Public Library at 42nd Street and discovered that Abraham Lincoln had been a real person, worn and aged not only by the tragic conflict that divided a young nation, but by a neurotic wife and the death of a beloved son. This guy's life was a mess, Eddie had thought as he rewrote the paper. And Finster the Spinster, with a tight, triumphant smile, had raised his grade from a C to a B+.

Then came Franklin Delano Roosevelt and the Great Depression. She railed, she ranted, she ran grainy footage of bread lines and made the class watch The Grapes of Wrath, which Eddie secretly thought was awesome. But his paper, which he had cleverly titled "FDR: Man or Myth?", she kicked back with tart comments, again keeping him after class. It was the second Friday in November, his mother was at a three-day conference with the legal firm she worked for, the weekend beckoned ... and he was trapped in Finster's dusty classroom for another lecture.

"Roosevelt was badly crippled, which the country didn't know because he wanted it that way," Mrs. Finster said crisply. "He had to look strong, and the press covered for him. Can you imagine that happening today? Why was none of that in your paper? Oh, it's nice that you told us how many people were unemployed, but statistics are not the whole story."

She smiled, unexpectedly, and went to her desk and opened a drawer. "Hold out your hand," she said, and she placed two brass coins in his outstretched palm. "Subway tokens. Promise me you'll use one on your way home."

"Tokens?" Eddie stared at her. "No one uses tokens anymore."

"I know that, but use one. Today. The time is right," she added mysteriously.

"Yes, ma'am," he said doubtfully. "When do I use the second one?"

"You'll know. But whatever happens, don't lose it," she said darkly. "And Edward? Keep your eyes open."

Keep your eyes open, Eddie thought as he walked into the 72nd Street subway station amid the familiar odor of concrete, hot metal, and stale sweat. What's that supposed to mean? He was a little surprised at the coin slot on the turnstile, but he fished one of Mrs. Finster's tokens from his pocket, dropped it in, and went through to the platform. Everything looked about the same: a handful of businessmen in suits (But why were they all wearing hats?) and a woman in a long baggy coat with a hat down to her eyebrows and thick stockings. Then the train pulled in with a screech, and it did look different — smaller, with a rounded roof and no graffiti — but Eddie shrugged, shouldered his backpack, and stepped in.

There was a man leaning against a pole reading The New York Times, which was nothing unusual ... until Eddie saw the headline.

ROOSEVELT WINNER IN LANDSLIDE!
DEMOCRATS CARRY 40 STATES: ELECTORAL VOTES 448

Go to Chapter Activities >

Give My Regards to Broadway

The story so far: Eddie was bored in history class and writing poor research papers but then his teacher Mrs. Finster gave him a subway token and told him to use it on the way home. He did use it and when he came out of the subway he saw a man reading a newspaper that had a headline about Roosevelt winning the election.

Eddie Barnes braced his legs against the sway of the downtown local and stared at the headline of The New York Times. He hadn't imagined it. ROOSEVELT WINNER IN LANDSLIDE! it said, the type sharp and black and freshly printed. Maybe it's some souvenir thing, he thought wildly. Maybe he bought it on eBay.

"Excuse me, sir," Eddie said. "Is that today's paper?"

"Nah," the man said. "Wednesday's. Just got to it. You want a piece?"

"Roosevelt won?"

"Yeah. Finally got rid of that crumb-bum Hoover. Prosperity's just around the corner," he said sourly. "Maybe for him— say, pal, you don't look so good."

"I need to sit down," Eddie said faintly.

"Hey, you palookas," the man called out as he put a hand under Eddie's elbow. "Give us some room." He drew Eddie across the car, motioned for the passengers to move over, and lowered him to the seat, which was narrow and covered in slick wicker-patterned upholstery.

"Thanks," Eddie said. "What day is it?"

"November 11, Armistice Day. Nineteen hundred and thirty-two," he added.

"Where am I?" Eddie whispered.

"New York. Where'd ya think, Rangoon? Kids," he grumbled as he went back to the center of the car, snapping open his newspaper with a sharp gesture.

Eddie leaned back, and a strip of brightly printed advertisements above the windows caught his eye. He'd never heard of Ipana toothpaste or Camay Beauty Soap or Moxie, which looked like a kind of root beer. He searched the car for something — anything! — he knew, but only the The New York Times was the least bit familiar. The other newspapers he saw people reading were as bizarre as Moxie, and the people were the strangest of all. In their curiously cut clothes and low-brimmed hats, the women reminded Eddie of The Grapes of Wrath or one of the old Jimmy Cagney movies his dad had been so crazy about. Maybe someone's shooting a movie, he thought. Maybe that's what this is.

He sat numbly as the subway train rattled along. When it pulled into the Times Square station, he impulsively sprang up and bolted from the car. Times Square he knew. He and his best friends Josh and Trevor spent Saturdays there just wandering around, sniggering at the tourists and, as Josh, who wanted to be an actor, liked to say, "observing the swelling scene." Please, God, please, Eddie prayed silently as he stumbled across the platform and up the stairs to the street. Let Times Square be the same.

But it wasn't.

Eddie stopped at the top of the stairs and just stared, his eyes wide, a roaring in his ears. This couldn't be Times Square! Where was the looming canyon of office buildings and enormous flashing billboards, the whole awe-inspiring carnival of light and noise and fast food? Nothing looked taller than ten or twelve stories, and only the Times Building where the ball dropped every New Year's Eve was recognizable. The west side of Broadway between 43rd and 44th streets was taken up by the Hotel Astor, an elegant brick building with a roof garden, and the Astor Theatre, which was showing a movie called Strange Interlude with Norma Shearer and Clark Gable. Running north along Broadway were two solid blocks of theaters with plays and musicals Eddie had never heard of: Dinner at Eight and The Good Earth and Of Thee I Sing. With a sense of relief, he spotted the New Amsterdam Theatre, where he'd seen The Lion King on his twelfth birthday. It still looked the same, although its vertical neon sign was missing and the eight-story office tower atop it dwarfed the buildings on either side. He squinted at the marquee: The Band Wagon with Fred and Adele Astaire. Fred Astaire he'd heard of, but who was Adele?

Eddie sank to the curb, his head in his hands. After a dazed moment, he scrabbled in his backpack for his cell phone, flipped it open, and gazed hungrily at the little bluish screen: NO SERVICE AVAILABLE. Yeah, right, he thought glumly. Not for about seventy years. No cells, no computers. No Internet, no Google. Mrs. Finster would love that. "If I ever see you again, Mrs. Finster, I'm going to tell you what I really think of you," he muttered. What had she gotten him into? Who did she think she was — some goofy wizard out of Harry Potter, doling out magic tokens like cough drops?

"I need to think," he said, and got to his feet. He walked away from Broadway down a side street until he saw an empty alley. He went in and sat on a garbage can and closed his eyes, trying to blot out images of a Manhattan as alien as the moon.

He heard her before he saw her. A door banged open and she came flying out, clattering noisily down the metal stairs in bright red tap shoes, a slim girl with platinum blonde curls and cheeks streaked with tears and mascara. She dashed across the alley, skidded to a stop, and grabbed his arm.

"You've got to help me!" she cried. "I'm in the most terrible trouble."

Go to Chapter Activities >

Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!

The story so far: Eddie walked around New York, noticing how different it looked in 1932. He is wondering how he traveled through time when a young woman grabbed him and demanded his help.

Eddie Barnes stared at the blonde girl clutching his arm. "Help you?" he croaked. "You want me to help you?"

"Get the cotton out of your ears," she said impatiently. "I'm in a jam." The door at the end of the alley creaked open. "Duck," the girl hissed. Her eyes wide with fright, she swiftly crouched down and yanked Eddie off the garbage can.

"Nothin', Boss," they heard a gravelly voice say. "She ain't here," and the door banged shut again.

"That was close," the girl said, then put a hand over her mouth and began to sob, tears spilling out of her bright blue eyes and down her stained cheeks.

"Let's get out of here," Eddie said. He pulled her to her feet and they went quickly to the entrance of the alley. The street was empty. He drew the girl down the sidewalk and into a doorway, and then he took a good look at her.

She was a tiny thing who barely came up to his shoulder. She was dressed in a red-and-purple striped satin top that was trimmed with gold sequins and knotted at the waist, and flared red satin shorts. As he watched, she pulled a squashed green packet of Lucky Strikes and matches out of a pocket. (That was something else he'd noticed about Times Square, although it hadn't really registered at the time: Just about everyone was smoking. You could smell it in the air, and the sidewalks were littered with crushed cigarette butts.)

"You're not going to smoke, are you?" Eddie said disgustedly.

The girl was trying to light a cigarette with shaking hands. She sent matches fluttering around her feet like leaves. "I'm upset," she said.

"Those things are really bad for you," he said firmly.

"Really?" She stared up at him. "I never heard that."

You will, he thought, and smiled inwardly as she put the cigarettes away. "You should eat something. You hungry?"

"I'm always hungry," she said plaintively, rubbing her thin arms.

"Gosh, you're gonna freeze. Here," he said gallantly, "take my jacket." He shimmied out of it and handed it to her. Then, he dug into his backpack and pulled out a wadded pair of sweat pants.

"What's with the knapsack?" she asked as she pulled on the pants and rolled them over at the waist. "You in the Boy Scouts?"

"It's just easy to carry stuff," he said. "Look, shouldn't we go somewhere?"

"The sooner the better— you got a name?"

"Eddie Barnes."

"I'm Glory, Glory Masterson. Listen, there's a Horn & Hardart up on the Square. It's big and crowded, so even if—" She grimaced and said, "Even if that thug Barney sees me, he can't pull nothin'. Say, you got any scratch? Money," she said, seeing his puzzled expression. "Long green."

Eddie was about to tell her that he'd hit the ATM before school, but he said only, "Yeah, I got money."

"Let's go around the block and cut back. I don't want to go by the front door of the parrot."

"The parrot?"

"The Purple Parrot," Glory said, her mouth trembling. "That lousy rotten nightclub where I work." And she began to cry again, sniffling and wiping her nose on the sleeve of Eddie's school blazer as they hurried along, her taps ringing on the sidewalk.

Whatever's going on here, Eddie thought, it's kind of exciting. Back in the alley, before Glory's dramatic entrance, he had seriously considered using Mrs. Finster's second token and just going home, holing up for the weekend with a couple of large pizzas and a stack of movies. But a genuine damsel in distress, a nightclub, and a thug named Barney seemed a lot more promising than movie night. He felt his spirits lifting.

The Horn & Hardart was an enormous, brightly lit cafeteria, smartly done up in turquoise paint and silvery chrome trim, with a long wall of little glass-fronted compartments with servings of everything from soup to steak to pie.

"We need nickels," Glory explained. "You put nickels in the doors and get your food."

Eddie pulled the change out of his pocket, Mrs. Finster's token winking up at him. "Sorry," he said. "No nickels."

They found a cashier, and Eddie pulled a crisp $10 bill out of his wallet. The woman took one look at the yellow and pink tints on the bill and handed it back.

"Where'd ya get this, Sonny," she snapped. "Your Monopoly set?"

"Never mind," Glory said hastily. "We just want tea."

"Sure you do," she said, and rolled her eyes.

"Follow my lead," Glory muttered to Eddie, "and keep quiet."

Tea, it seemed, was free. They filled cups with hot water at the tea station. Glory grabbed a couple of teabags, and they went to a table in a far corner of the restaurant, well away from prying eyes and the plate glass windows fronting Times Square.

"Now," Eddie said when they were seated. "Are you going to tell me what's got you so scared?"

"They were beating him up," Glory said in a low voice. "And I saw it."

Go to Chapter Activities >

Barney and the Dutchman

The story so far: Eddie met Glory Masterson, a young woman in trouble. She took him to an automat to get some free food and then told him she saw someone getting beaten up.

"You saw someone getting beaten up?" said Eddie. "That sounds terrible."

"It was," Glory said shortly. "I'll tell you in a minute, but we've got to do this while the water's hot."

"Do what?"

"Glory Masterson's world-famous tomato soup, that's what." She spun the Lazy Susan in the center of the table, grabbed the ketchup, and shook a hefty dollop into her cup of hot water. After stirring it in she added liberal amounts of salt and pepper, and Eddie copied her actions. She then took several cellophane-wrapped packets of crackers from a wire basket, thumped them into shards with the heel of her hand, and shook them into the ersatz soup. "Rent week I live on this stuff," she commented. "Go on," and she motioned to him.

Eddie took a tentative spoonful. It wasn't bad. It wasn't good, either, but at least it was warm. "What do you do with the teabags?" he asked.

"Take 'em home to Ma," she said between mouthfuls. "She uses them for eyewash."

"So, who was getting beaten up?" Eddie asked.

"My friend Sollie. Sol Bernicke, he's the bookkeeper for the club. He's a real sweetheart, Eddie. He's been like a father to me since my dad died last year."

"My dad died last year, too."

"Then you know," she said wistfully. She shook herself and said, "Anyway, I was going to Sollie's office to get my pay packet. I opened the door and ...and the Dutchman was holding him down in his chair and Barney just goin' to town on him. There was blood all over his face," she said and shuddered.

"Who's the Dutchman?"

"Jeez," she hissed. "Keep your voice down. Don't you know it's bad luck to even talk about Dutch Schultz? He's only the worst kind of bootlegger that ever lived, plus he owns most of the speakeasies around Times Square."

"What's a bootlegger?" Eddie asked.

Glory frowned at him. "You just fall off the back of a turnip truck? Ain't legal to drink so they smuggle hooch in from Canada."

"Oh...right. I forgot. What happened next?"

"What happened next is I see Sollie all bloody and the safe's open and there's money all over the floor, so I turn and run, and that stinker Barney Jakes yells, 'Hey, Blondie, get back here!' and I head out the back door like a jackrabbit."

"And run into me."

"I'm sorry I dragged you into this mess, but I didn't know what else to do. Besides," Glory added shyly, "you looked nice."

She fingered the sleeve of his blazer. "Like you was a private-school kid. Smart. Good family."

Eddie looked around the crowded Horn & Hardart cafeteria, then at the frightened girl who was huddled into his jacket gazing at him as though he were the answer to all her problems. "This is a mess," he said slowly. "Can I ask you something?"

"Ask away."

"Did Barney see your face?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Does he know your name?"

"Sure, I've been working there since April."

"But he called you Blondie. Are you the only blonde who works at The Purple Parrot?"

A slow smile spread across Glory's face. "There's four blondes in the chorus and we all wear the same costume."

"Then it could have been any one of you. What if you just go back there?" he suggested. "And pretend that nothing happened?"

"Say, that's not bad. I'll act like it's business as usual, work out the night, and then scamper at dawn. You have to be my bodyguard, though," she said fiercely. "You can stay backstage with Pops — he's the stage manager — and watch the show."

Eddie checked his watch and said, "Okay. Here's the deal. We've been gone about twenty, twenty-five minutes. We go back, we act like nothing's wrong, and you say you had to run down to the subway to meet me. I'm your cousin from out of town." Way out of town, he thought.

"Bingo!" Glory exclaimed. "I'll say I forgot to tell anyone where I was goin'." She grinned at him. "You're not as dumb as you look, Sherlock." She pushed back her chair and stood. "Come on, let's blow this joint."

They walked back through Times Square, which, now that dusk was falling and night was a heartbeat away, was coming to life. The pulse in the crowded streets was quickening, and Eddie could feel his pulse quickening in tandem. This is a movie, he thought excitedly. Long black cars with wide running boards were pulling up to the curbs, filled with men in tops hats and fur-collared overcoats and women in evening gowns with diamond bracelets sparkling on their gloved wrists. The nightclubs were gearing up. From their open doors drifted jazz, as cool and sleek as the women Eddie saw, their shoulders languidly twitching to the syncopation as they sashayed along.

When they reached the door of The Purple Parrot, Glory smiled nervously and squeezed Eddie's arm.

"Here we go, kiddo," she said. "It's showtime!"

Go to Chapter Activities >

The Purple Parrot

The story so far: Glory told Eddie that she saw Sollie, the nightclub bookkeeper being beaten up by someone working for a bootlegger. Eddie realizes that the thug didn't know who Glory was so Eddie suggests she go back to work and pretend nothing happened. Then, after her shift at work, she can escape.

Eddie Barnes had never been to a nightclub, but he'd seen enough of them in James Bond movies to know they were glamorous and mysterious and exciting. This was not the case with Purple Parrot. It was basically one large room with a tiny stage decorated in colored light bulbs, grubby crepe-paper leis, a vaguely tropical backdrop of parrots roosting in palm trees, plus twenty rickety café tables for the patrons and a small area in front of the stage for dancing. The rest was a dimly lit warren of offices and dressing rooms and an airless kitchen with a huge black stove and the greasiest pots and pans Eddie had ever seen.

"What'd you expect?" Glory teased him after their quick tour. "The Stork Club?"

Their return to the Purple Parrot had been uneventful, since everyone had been too busy to even notice them: the ten-man jazz orchestra was tuning up and showing off for each other; the bartender was polishing glasses; and the other eleven girls in the chorus line were in their dressing room, gossiping and, as Glory said, "slappin' on a fresh coat of paint."

They went backstage so Glory could introduce Eddie to Pops, the stage manager; a term loosely applied, since he didn't do much but read, reminisce about his days in vaudeville, and keep one rheumy eye on the back door. Would it be all right, she asked him, if Eddie stayed with him that evening?

"Sure, Doll," Pop agreed. "Anything for you."

"Ah, you say that to all the girls," she quipped. "Uh, Pops, I was wondering..." She took a deep breath. "Barney around?"

"Nah, he left a little while ago, him and Dutch. Business, they said. Probably won't be back tonight. Too bad, I hear Jimmy Walker's dropping by." He shook his head. "The new mayor ain't got half the style of Jimmy. Oh, wait, I got something for you," he said and pulled an envelope out of his cardigan pocket. "From Sollie."

"Sollie? You saw Sollie?"

"Don't start asking questions, Glory," the old man said sharply. "He's gone."

"What do you mean he's gone?"

"Left town, I guess." He shrugged. "He said something about a sister in Philly."

"Oh. That's good." She slipped the envelope into a pocket. "I'll save this for later." She smiled crookedly. "I hate goodbyes."

Pops found Eddie a chair and they settled in, Pops with Variety and Eddie with a copy of The Daily Mirror he'd found in the men's room. "Wow! Look at this," he said. "You can get an apartment on Riverside Drive for eleven bucks a week, utilities included."

"I don't have that kind of dough," Pops said seriously. "Do you?"

"No way," Eddie said shamefacedly. "Not me."

The show started at 9, and the chorus was on first, tapping and strutting to "Has Anybody Seen My Gal?" "Five foot two, eyes of blue, Oh, what those five feet can do!" the girls trilled, and Eddie thought it was a fine description of Glory, who was clearly the best dancer in the line. ("She's as good as Adele Astaire," he hesitantly whispered to Pops, who nodded sagely and whispered back, "Better.") Then came a sultry brunette who sang "Dancing in the Dark," which, she announced, was from The Band Wagon and the hit of the season. The orchestra played a few numbers and she was on again — this time for the Irving Berlin tune, "Let's Have Another Cup of Coffee," which made Eddie long for Starbucks — after which the audience staggered to its feet and danced for a while, and then it started all over again. Eventually, despite the noise level that increased with every hour, the insistent music, and, toward dawn, shrieks and sounds of breaking glass, Eddie leaned against the wall and slept.

He was awakened by someone shaking his shoulder. "I'm up, Mom, I'm up," he murmured.

"Eddie, it's me," Glory said, laughing. "Time to go, Sunshine."

He sleepily opened his eyes, and was relieved to see that she was dressed normally, in a plaid wool coat and a little blue felt hat.

The flat light of a chilly November morning revealed a Times Square the glittering neon-lit night had concealed: the shabbiness, the tawdry signs, the filth running wetly in the gutters. The Army was setting up the bread line, heating massive vats of soup and coffee for the jobless men who stood patiently in the cold, waiting for their only meal of the day. There were beggars working the crowd, and on one corner a man in a threadbare overcoat and bowler hat was hawking apples from a crate. One for a nickel, three for a dime. So Eddie bought three, handed one to Glory, and stuck the other in his jacket pocket. "Thank you, sir," the man said politely, and Eddie wondered what had brought him to this.

"What do we do now?" he asked Glory.

"I don't know, I still don't feel safe. But I know where we can spend the whole day for pennies."

"The Staten Island Ferry?"

"Oh, I can do better than that," she said. "And it's right up the street."

Go to Chapter Activities >

You Ought To Be in Pictures

The story so far: After watching Glory at work, Eddie and Glory walk around the city. Eddie wonders how people got as poor as they seem to be and why times are so hard. Glory said she had an idea about where they can spend the day.

The Roxy Theatre at Broadway and 50th Street had opened in 1928 with more fanfare than the Olympic Games and was known as The Cathedral of the Motion Picture. To say it was big was an understatement: The Roxy was enormous.

"Yikes!" Eddie yelped as he took in the lobby, which was five stories high and resembled a more ornate version of Napoleon's Tomb. "This place makes Radio City Music Hall look like a log cabin."

"You've been to Radio City?" Glory said curiously. "It's not supposed to open 'til December."

"I just looked in the windows," he improvised. "So, where do we sit?"

"Top balcony. It only costs a dime, but you'll get a nosebleed from the hike."

If the lobby had stopped Eddie in his tracks, the Renaissance-style theater, which seated some 6,200, took his breath away with acres of gilding and carved marble and red velvet, and paisley carpeting as thick and soft as fur. The doors opened at 9 a.m. The price of admission included a stage show with the 110-piece Roxy Orchestra, a newsreel, a travelogue, a cartoon, and a first-run movie. The movie that week was Red Dust with Jean Harlow and Clark Gable, who Glory said was "the berries." The newsreel showed Eleanor Roosevelt at Hyde Park, knitting as she listened to election returns on the radio, and FDR in an open car, smiling jauntily. When the newly elected president came on the screen the audience erupted, stamping and cheering and whistling, one man behind them yelling, "Go get 'em, Franklin!"

"Jeez, he's wonderful," Glory sighed. "I just know he's gonna turn everything around. I wish I could have voted for him."

"Why didn't you?"

"I'm only fifteen," she muttered. "Not that anyone at The Parrot knows."

"I'm fifteen, too. Why aren't you in school?"

"Someone's got to pay the rent while Ma looks after my little brother. Shhh, the cartoon's coming on."

Shortly before 11 a.m., Red Dust stopped mid-scene, the screen went white, and the house lights came on. A man in a tuxedo walked out of the wings and went to a microphone at the side of the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, putting up his hands to quell the whispers running through the vast auditorium like spilled mercury. "Quiet, please. As you all know, yesterday was the anniversary of the day the guns fell silent in France. But here in New York, we're observing this solemn occasion today. In a few moments this great city will come to a stop for two minutes of silence. Church bells will toll, and the subways and buses and trains will stop as we remember all the brave young men who gave their lives." He pulled out a pocket watch, clicked it open, and, after a few seconds, raised his arm and brought it down. The lights dimmed, and the Roxy fell silent.

Eddie's only exposure to World War I had been channel surfing across documentaries on PBS, but suddenly the faded images of men in mushroom-shaped helmets clambering out of trenches seemed real in a way they never had before. It's only been fourteen years since that war ended, he thought. That's not much time. In the dim light, he could see people's lips moving in prayer. One woman a few rows down was quietly weeping. Had she lost her husband? he wondered. Or a brother, or a son? As the silence lengthened, he could literally feel the weight of history pressing him down into his seat. After exactly two minutes, the film started again with a fluttering jerk, and Eddie realized that he'd been holding his breath.

They stayed all day, keeping hunger at bay with containers of popcorn that Eddie was elated to discover in 1932 meant freshly popped and laced with melted real butter. By five o'clock, however, he never wanted to see the sun set on the coast of Sunny Spain again, Mickey Mouse's squeaky voice was starting to grate on his nerves, and he had most of the snappy dialogue from Red Dust memorized. Not that he minded watching Jean Harlow five times in a row — with her slinky dresses and tongue-in-cheek delivery she was definitely the berries.

At half past six, Glory yawned and said, "We can go now. Everyone'll be back at The Parrot, getting ready for the show." She eyed him and said, "Anyone waiting for you at home?"

"No," he answered truthfully. "My mother's away for the weekend. I'm sort of on my own."

"Well, Ma's gonna be frantic. Come on, kiddo—"

"Let's blow this joint?"

"You said it, Sherlock."

They walked out of the Roxy and stood for a moment, drinking in the twilight and the purposeful bustle of taxicabs and crowded sidewalks.

"So, Miss Masterson, shall we grab a cab?" Eddie said.

"Woo-hoo," she giggled. "Aren't you the one?" and then she froze, her mouth sagging with shock.

Barney Jakes was leaning against the building, casually flipping a quarter off his thumb, a trick he'd seen an actor do in a movie and made his own.

"Hello, Glory," he said, smiling coldly. "Enjoy the picture? I think we got some unfinished business."

Go to Chapter Activities >

Yes, We Have No Bananas

The story so far: Eddie and Glory spent the whole day in the movie theater and just as they were leaving, they ran into Barney, the thug who beat up Sollie.

"How'd you find me?" Glory said in a strangled voice.

"Everyone hides out in the movies," Barney said acidly. "I done it myself. I just kept lookin', and there you were." He made a motion with the hand in his pocket, and with a stab of horror Eddie saw what he feared might be the outline of a pistol. "Go on," Barney said, and jerked his hand. "Don't make me shoot a hole in this nice jacket now."

There was a long black Buick idling at the curb, a burly man behind the wheel. As Barney gestured Glory and Eddie toward the open rear door, an idea popped into Eddie's head.

His mother Susie's favorite movie of all time was Beverly Hills Cop, which she and Eddie's father had seen on their first date. Eddie liked to tease her that she'd named him for Eddie Murphy, not her uncle as she claimed, and he'd gotten her the DVD for Christmas. Would Axel Foley's banana trick work with a different fruit? he wondered as his hand closed around the apple in his pocket.

With his heart pounding and his mouth dry, Eddie took the apple, quickly bent down, and jammed it, hard, into the tailpipe of the car.

"Whatcha doin'?" Barney growled as he shoved Glory into the back seat.

"Nothing," Eddie gulped. "Tying my shoes."

"Get in, I don't got all day."

Barney slammed the door shut and got in front, and, as the car slid into traffic, Eddie took hold of Glory's hand and grabbed the door handle with his other hand. After four or five blocks the engine started to cough, and the car began to lose speed.

"Goose the gas," Barney snapped.

"I am, I am," the driver whined. "It's gone all hinky."

The car sputtered to a stop. Eddie flung open the door and leaped out, pulling Glory over the running board and into the street. "Run!" he yelled, and they were off. He dared a quick glance back, and saw the stalled Buick surrounded by honking cars and Barney with his head out the window, arguing with a very large traffic cop. "I know a shortcut," Glory panted as they dashed along the sidewalk, weaving in and out of startled pedestrians. "It's not far."

Glory lived in a fourth-floor walk-up on 48th Street near 9th Avenue. As Eddie trudged up the stairs behind her, he couldn't help thinking of the pleasantly appointed "doorman building" he called home. The halls here were narrow and smelled of cooking, and through the thin walls he could hear radios blaring, voices squabbling, and babies crying.

Glory's brother Jimmy, who ran to the door when he heard her key in the lock, was a scrawny eight-year-old with red hair and a face full of freckles. Mrs. Masterson was a wispy blonde with a sweet manner and only a trace of her daughter's peppy style. Dinner was cabbage, potatoes, bread and butter, and coffee. Eddie took one look and knew there was barely enough for three, let alone a guest. "I'm not hungry, Mrs. Masterson, really," he told her, "but that coffee looks delicious."

After dinner, Glory grabbed a blanket and she and Eddie crawled through a window onto the fire escape. "I didn't want to read Sollie's letter in front of Ma," she explained as she unfolded it. "Dear Glory," she read out. "You're too good for this racket. Make a fresh start and don't look back. This is for you. Your friend, Sol." She peered into the envelope, and the color drained from her face. "Oh, Eddie," she breathed, her eyes shining. "There's a hundred dollars in here!"

They sat on the fire escape for hours, Glory telling Eddie about hard times and how, with no help from "those stinkers in Washington," you pretty much relied on your wits. Eddie talked about his friends and his family and West Side Prep ... and then he told her about Mrs. Finster and the mysterious subway tokens. When he finished, Glory yawned and elbowed him in the ribs. "You slay me, Eddie," she said. "What an imagination! You should go out to Hollywood and write for the pictures. Ooh, I gotta hit the hay —I'm beat. Some day, huh?"

Eddie dozed fitfully on the Mastersons' lumpy couch, waking before dawn as the sky lifted from black to charcoal to a deep cloudless blue. It's going to be a beautiful day, he thought, and then he remembered another beautiful fall morning and two planes streaking low over the city. They don't know about 9/11, he thought. Glory and her mother and Jimmy didn't know about 9/11 or World War II and the Holocaust or Vietnam or Watergate. They knew about war and poverty, but the worst of the Twentieth Century lay ahead, and as Eddie watched the sun rise over the rooftops and water towers, he envied their innocence.

And, as he lay there, he went over the plan he'd devised to keep Glory safe. Maybe it wasn't the best plan, and it was pretty simple. Then again, simple was usually the way to go.

All he had to do now was talk her into it.

Go to Chapter Activities >

Toot Toot Tootsie, Goodbye

The story so far: Eddie shoved an apple into the tailpipe of Barney's car and he and Glory were able to get away. They spent the night at Glory's with her mom and brother. Eddie has an idea about keeping Glory safe but he has to convince her to do it.

"But I don't want to leave town," Glory protested.

"Why do you think Sollie gave you that money?" Eddie replied.

"I thought I'd just live on it, 'til I get another job."

"What, dancing in a club? How long until Barney finds you again?"

"I could just promise him I'd never say anything."

"Glory. He was beating the guy up. That's aggravated assault," said Eddie, who never missed reruns of Law & Order. "I think he proved yesterday he'd do just about anything to stay out of jail."

"Okay," she sighed. "I'll go break the news to Ma. We've moved three times this year when I was short on the rent. What's one more?"

It took the Mastersons the rest of the morning to pack, as there was much discussion about what would fit into the family's one suitcase, and Glory sacrificed most of her clothes to make room for the big wood-encased radio. "Ma loves her music," she said cheerfully, "and Jimmy couldn't live without listening to Little Orphan Annie."

By 1 o'clock they were ready, and, although Eddie had promised a cab ride with the last "old-style" dollar bill in his wallet, Glory insisted on walking, for "one last look at my city." When they reached Pennsylvania Station, Eddie took one of Sollie's twenties and bought the tickets, and they walked down to the platform.

"I never heard of Watkins Glen," Glory said. "You're sure it's okay?"

"My history teacher grew up there, and she's always talking about it. It's just a nice, small town upstate. Your mom can get a job and you can go back to school. Oh, Jeez, don't do that. Don't cry, Glory."

"I can't help it," she sobbed. "I told you I hate goodbyes." She flung herself at him and wound her arms around his neck, her damp cheek pressed against his, and whispered into his ear, "You're my knight in shining armor, Eddie Barnes. I'll never forget you, not as long as I live."

She stepped back, and picked up the suitcase. "Come on, Ma—" She cocked her head at Eddie and smiled tremulously, and they said it together: "Let's blow this joint."

The Mastersons got on the train and found seats by a window. Glory and Jimmy kept waving until the train disappeared around a bend in the tracks. Eddie didn't know what to do after that, so he went up to the waiting room and sat down. Suddenly he wanted to cry, hard, like he hadn't since the day his dad died. Glory was gone, and he'd never see her again. How could he? He had to go back to his own time and his own life. Besides, even if he found her again, she'd be a very old lady, and he was just the kid who'd showed up one weekend and helped her out of a jam. She probably wouldn't even remember his name.

Eddie swallowed the lump in his throat, and looked around. This place is really awesome, he thought. Why did they ever tear it down? The afternoon sun slanted down from the Palladian windows high in the vaulted ceiling, and he sat listening to the voices and footsteps echoing off the marble pillars and the vast floor, and drinking in the look of the people. He sat for an hour, one hand in his pocket safely around the second token. And then he peeled himself off the bench and set out through the great bronze doors for one last look at the Manhattan of 1932, the city of twenty-story skyscrapers and speakeasies and coffee for a nickel. A city where, despite soup lines and beggars and bankers in threadbare overcoats selling apples, there was energy and drive and hope.

He walked through the West Side and over to the piers, strolling past the ranks of ocean liners, marveling at their sleek majesty and wishing he and Glory could take one to Europe. He walked down to the end of the White Star pier and leaned for a time on the railing, gazing downriver to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. It was still open in 1932, he remembered, immigrants from all over the world pouring into the Great Hall, clutching their suitcases and their dreams. "History is about people's lives," he heard Mrs. Finster say, and he knew, as much as he had ever known anything, just what she'd been trying to tell him all along.

When twilight fell and the streetlights started to come on, Eddie went to the nearest subway station and used the token. Almost suppertime — he found himself longing for take-out pizza — and Mom should be home from her conference by now, full of news and wanting to know how he'd spent the weekend. The train was almost empty, and it was like the one he'd taken on Friday afternoon. He got in and sat down, smiling nostalgically at the Moxie and Ipana ads. He got off at 28th Street and practically ran through the station, taking the stairs up to the street two and three at a time. The first person he saw was a kid about his own age sloping along in baggy jeans and a hoodie, iPod buds in his ears.

He was back.

Go to Chapter Activities >

Back to the Future

The story so far: Eddie convinced Glory and her family to move to Watkins Glen, New York in order to stay safe. He took them to the train station and then walked along the piers. Finally, he boarded the subway and traveled back through time to his home and his own life.

The performance Eddie Barnes gave in American History class the following afternoon was, his friends told him later, only brilliant. When Mrs. Finster asked him to give his thoughts on the Depression and its effect on New York City, Eddie walked to the front of the room, took a deep breath, and began.

He talked about a city where shabby and defeated men waited for soup in Times Square, lined up beside Broadway theaters and posh hotels, a city where swells in top hats partied with mobsters and politicians in dark, noisy nightclubs until the sun rose, and where great ships lined the harbor. He talked about the touching faith the people had in their new president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, an educated patrician who was filled with the kind of optimism they so desperately craved. Would they have elected this man, Eddie asked the class, if they'd known the extent of his disability? No! he cried passionately — we needed a leader who seemed as invincible as Superman.

He talked about how there was no Social Security and no unemployment compensation, and you didn't know if the money you put in the bank would be there in the morning. If you couldn't pay your rent, you moved on, grabbing what possessions you could in the middle of the night and praying you could find someplace else and a job — any job, no matter how demeaning, even if you had to lie to get it — so you could keep a roof over your head and a little food on your table.

He talked about how the movies were important because they were a much-needed escape. For one thin dime, ordinary people could surround themselves with luxury and, for a few precious hours, forget their troubled lives. And he talked about how, for the people of the Great Depression, without the hope of a better life, there was no point in going on. But they had gone on, and they had worked hard and long and willingly, and, when the world was again plunged into war, they and their children had answered the call and ensured that democracy and freedom would endure.

He gestured, he went red in the face, and at one point he pounded his fist on Mrs. Finster's desk. He paced and he orated, and when he finished and sank, exhausted, back into his seat, the class burst into applause.

’ÄúThat was excellent, Edward,’Äù Mrs. Finster said after everyone stopped clapping. ’ÄúYou have captured the era beautifully. As I have told this class time and again, history is not about dates and battles — history is about people's lives.’Äù

Mrs. Finster's class was the last of the day, and Eddie waited until everyone had gone to approach her.

’ÄúDid you have an interesting weekend?’Äù she asked him, her eyes twinkling.

’ÄúMrs. Finster, where did you get those tokens?’Äù

’ÄúWhy, from Glory, of course.’Äù

’ÄúGlory?’Äù

’ÄúI'm her daughter, Edward,’Äù she said. ’ÄúWe knew you'd be along one day, and Mother told me to give you the tokens when the time was right. It had to be a certain Friday in November, to coincide with the week FDR was elected in 1932. We didn't even know if the tokens would work. But it seems they did.’Äù

The silence drew out as Eddie tried to wrap his brain around the fact that not only was Finster the Spinster Glory's daughter, but also, for some reason, she had handed him the greatest adventure he'd ever had ’Äì or was ever likely to have. She was still smiling, and it suddenly dawned on him that she was rather nice looking, with blonde hair that reminded him a little of Glory's bright curls.

The door opened and Mr. Jiminez the math teacher stuck his head into the room. ’ÄúHey, Eddie, want to go for coffee?’Äù

’ÄúNo thanks, John, not today,’Äù she answered. ’ÄúBut I'll take a rain check.’Äù She turned back to Eddie and smiled again, this time mischievously. ’ÄúYour mouth's open, Edward.’Äù

’ÄúYour name's Eddie?’Äù

’ÄúIt's short for Edwina,’Äù she said. ’ÄúWhy shouldn't my mother name me after the boy who saved her life? You did, you know. If you hadn't put her on the train to Watkins Glen, who knows what would have happened? I've been hearing about you since I was a little girl. Why do you think I took this job?’Äù She picked up her purse and turned to him. ’ÄúDo you have any plans for this evening?’Äù

’ÄúI— I don't think so,’Äù Eddie stammered.

’ÄúThen let's go call your mother and see if you can come over for dinner. Glory's been waiting a long time to see you again.’Äù

’ÄúGlory's still—?’Äù He paused tactfully.

’ÄúAlive? Oh, very much so,’Äù said Edwina Finster. ’ÄúAlthough having to use a cane has pretty much cut down on her tap dancing. Come on. Let's blow this joint.’Äù

As Eddie followed her out of the classroom, his mind in a whirl, all he could think to say was, ’ÄúMrs. Finster, does Glory have any more of those tokens?’Äù

’ÄúAll in good time, Edward,’Äù her voice floated back to him. ’ÄúAll in good time.’Äù

The End

Go to Chapter Activities >