: Dawn breaks over the Hammar house a few minutes before 6:00. Standing alone in the humid morning air filling the spartan back yard, Oskar Hammar watches the bright sliver of sun hitting the top of the house and slowly seeping down to roof towards the gutters and the white painted bricks of the walls. And, the top of Oskar’s pink, sweaty, balding head. His pale blonde hair, thinning by the moment, provides almost no protection from the steady rivulets of perspiration.
He is dressed in an old, heavy brown woolen suit, a heavy embroidered vest, a thick muslin shirt decked with a celluloid collar and a shiny chocolate brown cravat, slowly darkening to shit brown as the sweat invades and conquers the material. A pair of heavy hobnailed boots give him an additional inch of height. The chain of a silver pocketwatch catches the light each time Oskar breathes. In his hand, a matching beaverskin hat with a distinctive red headband.
At any other time, he would just be the odd, round little hermit most everyone avoids. In the past, in the 19th century he shall be the intriguing Mr. Hammar, maker of worlds.
It is time.
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The alarm in Amanda and Stavros’ room bleats relentlessly at the stroke of six. Stav’s heavy hand slaps aimlessly in the direction of the hateful noise, finally hitting the mark, sending the silenced clock to the floor. Next to him, Amanda sits up groggily, pushing back the tangle of long brown hair that emerged in the night.
Well…what “night” they had. Aunt Phil, Bitsie, and Schramm kept them up until 2 am, going over their plans. Stavros turns over, curling his arm around Amanda’s waist, and burying his face into her side. She manages to extricate herself from her fiancee’s python-like entanglements, shuffling around to the end of the bed. Stav grumbles something vaguely obscene in Greek, and buries himself in her pillow, spreading his body across her side of the bed like an anatomy class model. He is covered in a pelt of thick, blue-black fur that highlights every curve and dent of his impressive musculature. Amanda can only stare at the hirsute glory,
“I cannot believe I’m gonna marry this shag throw rug,” she smirks, slowly pulling the covers down, revealing the rest of his naked body and sounding a little like corduroy slacks.
“Last chance, Mr. Phistemopheles,” she says distinctly, whipping the sheet away with a soft *pop*. “Let’s go.”
An olive-skinned arm thrusts up from the mattress, extending a digital salute. Amanda pops her tongue, then reaches over and slaps his bare ass with a high-pitched *SPAK*. He jolts up from the bed, and faces her, naked with morning erection on full display. She giggles, and makes a break for the bathroom, closing the door just before he can catch her. He knocks three times and says,
“I do have to go, you know. This isn’t all for you.”
From inside, he hears Amanda’s muffled voice say,
“Yes it is, and you know it. Go pee across the hall, in the other suite. There’s four of them on this floor, you know.”
He exhales loudly, and replies,
“Fine. But, when I get back we’re showering together.”
The door opens a crack. Amanda’s face squeezes into the opening. “Brush your teeth first.” Her hand extends his toothbrush and toothpaste. He takes them, saying “Deal!” as the door closes again. Inside, he hears the sound of the shower being started. He turns back to the bed and grabs his robe. The one Amanda says makes him look like the pool boy in Spartacus. Throwing it on, he carefully opens the door, and looks down the hallway. Aunt Phil’s door is still closed. Good. He dashes across the hallway, and into the opposite suite, closing the door behind him.
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Back inside his house, Oskar finishes bringing in the rest of his supplies to the room. His pink, fatty brow is wet with sweat, as is most of him now dressed in his heavy woolen suit. It doesn’t matter. Here, in the room with the orb, he feels comfortable; at peace. He takes another look around at all his things, running through his mental checklist as he mentally catalogs each trunk and valise. His chubby hands pat down every available pocket in his coat, vest, and trousers, making certain he has everything in place.
“Glasses,” he mutters, leaving the room again to go into the kitchen.
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In the breakfast room on the DuPlessis mansion’s ground floor, Philomena Phistemopheles sips a powerful bloody mary. ‘Less of a bloody mary than a bruised one,’ Bitsie would’ve quipped, seeing the pale red of the tomato juice dissolved into a preponderance of vodka. Her “inside cigar” fills the first level with the inviting smell of a kitchen hearth.
Bitsie wanders in, looking the worse for wear. Schramm materializes with her new morning routine: two clove cigarettes, a massive mimosa, two vitamin pills and a croissant.
“Thank you, Schramm. Good morning,” she croaks, easing herself into the chair opposite Phil’s.
“Good morning, Philomena. I see Schramm got your daily blood sacrifice. With a twist. How festive.”
Phil smirks, replying “Don’t be silly, darling. You cannot find a virgin in 20 miles of Orleans Parish. Certainly not in this house,” she snipes, her left eyebrow shooting up to her considerable hairline. Bitsie is not to be outdone.
“The last time you saw virginity, there was a new star in the East.”
Phil grins widely, “They never got the smell of incense out of that manger!”
The women indulge in a hearty laugh. The kind of laugh only two old broads can share. At once heartwarming, and bitter.
Schramm appears again, with a refresher for Philomena, who turns away from him. Once again, as she did the night before, she faces away from him. Setting the drink down by her, Schramm goes to leave, but Bitsie has had enough of it.
“Phil.?” she says, taking a large puff from her clove cigarette. “Schramm is not only my butler and trusted confidant, he is my friend. Why won’t you even speak to him?”
Bitsie watches as Philomena’s face instantly contorts into the cruelty-laced masque she recalls from her last visit to New Orleans. In a voice that could peel paint, she says acidly,
“I don’t acknowledge thieves, Darling!”
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Oskar returns to the room, the top right pocket of his coat now appropriately filled with the ancient spectacles he purchased years ago; after the first time he went into the past, and learned his lesson: Be certain what you bring along with you existed before you arrive. Otherwise, the item will either disappear into nothingness; its component parts in use for another purpose. Or, it will convert itself into whatever form the materials were in before your arrival. That’s the reason he’s gone to such great lengths to find out the history of everything he’s gathered. All of it will still be around when he gets there.
He closes the door, and inside the room time stops. He checks his pulse. One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes. Not a single heartbeat. Just the hum of the orb keeping him alive. He loves this part. With time stopped, so is his heart rate and metabolism. Yet, he still moves around, still thinks, still feels. Just one of the exceptional things he’s learned about the orb. He is nearly ready to go.
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Emerging from the shower after a fitful, but needed lovemaking session, Stavros and Amanda begin to get dressed, when a wave of nausea washes over Stav. Clutching his stomach and letting out a moan of pain, he falls back against the dresser, doubled over. Amanda rushes to his side, grabbing his massive shoulders, attempting to raise him up. Stavros gasps, and sputters, “something’s happening!” before vomiting suddenly onto the rug.
Downstairs, Bitsie is shocked at Philomena’s accusation.
“Thief?” she yells, her voice growing more strained and highly-pitched as she continues. “Schramm has never stolen a thing in his life! At least, not in the 30+ years he’s lived here with me.”
Philomena turns on Bitsie, slowly rising from her chair. “Bitsie,” she says, dripping with condescension. “Dear. Darling. Dense Bitsie. Once again, I ask you: have you never wondered about your servant’s…abilities?” She leans in across the table towards her. “Have you never, ever wondered just how he came by knowledge?” She turns to glare at Schramm, who stares her down coldly. Bitsie is about to lay into Philomena when suddenly the two turn and look towards the front door with recognition in their eyes.
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Erica L. awakens from a sound sleep, startled by Rex jumping on top of her in the bed, whimpering and growling.
“What’s the matter, boy--OW!” she shouts, clutching the side of her head. Rex is now clawing at his ears, whimpering even more. More concerned about her best friend than herself, Erica grabs Rex and holds him tightly. He wraps his forelegs around her neck, pushing his head into hers as she tries to figure out what’s going on.
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Now seated at the table, the orb before him, Oskar pulls the last trunk into place behind him. It is done. He is ready. Reaching over to his left, he picks up his beaverskin hat and places it on top of his balding head. Taking a deep breath, he reaches into his pocket and produces an ancient pencil etching he found while poking around in the various files and holdings of the Historic New Orleans Collection. He unfolds the paper, and sets it up, standing before him. It is a drawing of where he is sitting now, done by a survey artist in 1855. It is the only piece of his supplies that wasn’t created before 1854, as the first artistic rendering of the area. He focuses all his attention on the illustration, then raises his stubby hand towards the orb. As he nears it, the space around the orb begins to change. Another world is seeping into view like water drops staining a gray silk scarf. The gulf around the orb grows larger as Oskar concentrates, his lips pursing into a pinched bow-tie beneath his wide, flattened nose.
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Philomena turns to Schramm and orders,
“The children! Get them. Fireplace!”
Schramm literally disappears in front of Bitsie, forcing her to sit down again. She’s always suspected he could do that. It’s the only explanation. He’s just…never done it in front of her.
Phil, seeing her face is, for a fleeting moment, sad. There’s not time for that now. She grabs Bitsie by the arm, and begins pulling her into the main living room.
“Come along, Bitise darling. Like you Americans say, it’s go time!”
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Amanda crouches by Stavros, who is on his knees, dry heaving over the long puddle of vomit he’s released. She holds his long black hair back from his face. He is pale and clammy, all over, and trembling. Suddenly, Schramm materializes behind them, covering them with his arms. No sooner can Amanda register it’s him, they are all in the downstairs living room just as Phil is dragging Bitsie in. Schramm disappears again, and Philomena rushes to Stavros, producing one of her cigars, lit. Amanda stumbles into Bitsie, who’s finally gotten her wits about her. They stand together, speaking rapidly.
“D-did you see that?”
“Goin’ and comin’, yes I did.”
“We were in our room--”
“--And then you weren’t, I know.”
“Then, Schramm--poof!”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“I owe you $50 bucks.”
“Yes. Yes, you do.”
Philomena kneels by Stavros. Taking a deep drag from her cigar, she raises his face to hers and blows the smoke into his face. The room smells of ginger and peppermint. The nausea passes, and he says, roughly,
“He’s doing it now, Aunt Phil. He’s going back again.”
A single tear rolls from his piercing green eye, down his chiseled jaw and onto Philomena’s hand. It bursts into a tiny puff of vapor and is gone..
“Everyone! Center of the room, now!”
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Oskar lays his hand on the orb, and the world around his cocoon of things dissolves away into a cool, humid morning in the middle of an open field, He looks down at the drawing, and sees the spot the artist will have drawn. The sky is a clear azure blue. Among the tall grasses, he can see stands of cypress. He can hear the sound of running water. Wasn’t Metairie Road once a canal? He glances around. All his possessions are still there, still intact. He’s gotten it all inside what he's decided to call the 'time bubble'. He’s almost there.
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Schramm pulls everyone into the center of the room, directly over the DuPlessis family crest. They come together, Bitsie putting her one arm around Amanda and entwining the other arm around Schramm’s. Stavros stands by Amanda, and makes room for Phil when she says,
“One more thing.”
She breaks away, and walks to the fireplace. Facing the large mirror, she turns to Bitsie and says,
“Darling, this is why you ask questions from now on.”
She lays her hands upon the glass, which parts like a curtain at her touch. She reaches inside and pulls out a black iron box, very old. The mirror returns to normal. She opens the box, and produces four black iron amulets on chains. Bitsie stares at the mirror for a moment, then turns to Phil and says,
“Okay. I have questions.”
“Question and answer period has passed. Put this on, now.” She passes three of the amulets to Bitsie, Stavros, and Amanda. She hands the empty box to Schramm and sneers,
“Here you are, thief. I’m afraid you’ve come up short.”
Schramm, cool as always, closes the box, setting it down on the coffee table as he says,
“Fortunately, madame, I have my own.” He loosens two buttons on his shirt to reveal a fifth iron amulet against his chest. Closing himself up again, she hisses,
“You’re slipping, thief.”
A great rushing sound wells up, seemingly from everywhere. Amanda clings to Stavros, with Bitsie at her side. Philomena retreats to Stavros’ other side as Bitsie, seeing what’s happening, pulls Schramm next to Amanda, and cozies in between him and Phil.
“Here we go, darlings!” Philomena screams, her blue-black hair now flying around wildly as the sound grows louder.
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Erica L. and Rex, The Wonder Dog cling to each other, the painful rushing sound in their heads getting stronger. Erica strokes Rex’s head, hoping it’s giving him some kind of comfort because it’s doing nothing for her. This has to be something Hammar’s doing. Maybe he’s figured out who she is. He’s firing off some kind of torture ray to punish them. She can’t stand to see him suffer like this. She leans over her bed and grabs the heating pad she borrowed for her science experiment. Plugging it in, she puts it by Rex’s head to try and ease the pain. And, it works. Like, really quickly. He smiles and pants, looking up at her lovingly. Okay. She snuggles down next to him, putting her head next to his on the pillow. And, the pain stops. Why? She sits back up again, and, yep. Pain’s back. Back down again, behind the pad, pain-free. It has to be the heating pad. It must be blocking whatever gadget or gun Hammar is using.
Is this why old people always have heating pads?
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The pastoral scene around Oskar is nearly complete. 1854 is only a moment away. He can smell the water now, along with the grass, and the pines. In the distance, he can make out a rough road, and a horse-drawn wagon rambling along with…he can almost make it out…bales of hay. Now, there’s the sound of insects buzzing about. He looks again towards the drawing. It has become transparent, barely visible now. Oskar brushes his hand through what is left of the illustration and it flies away entirely. The humming has stopped. He is there.
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The rushing sound inside the DuPlessis mansion has become nearly unbearable. Because, although the air around them is as still as the grave, the feeling of a terrible wind rushing through their bodies--their souls, is nearly unbearable. Amanda buries herself in Stavros’ chest, scared and desperate. Then suddenly--
Quiet.
…This is My New Orleans.
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