Class of '59 (American Journey Book 4) Read Online Free PDF Page A

I should ask you that question."
    "I'm Mark Ryan. I live here."
    "That's funny," the woman said. "I'm a guest here. I know the man who owns this house. I know his wife. You don't look like either one. Shall we try again?"
    "Please let me pass," Mark said. "I mean you no harm. If you let me pass, I promise you'll never see me again."
    The woman dropped her hands to her hips and laughed.
    "You're a regular comedian."
    "Please," Mark said. "Just let me in."
    "No."
    "I could force my way in."
    "I could also scream," the woman said. She hardened her stare. "I don't think you want me to wake the neighbors. Do you?"
    "No."
    "Why don't you be a good boy and return to your movie set or frat party or wherever you came from?"
    "I can't," Mark said.
    The woman's face softened.
    "Why not?"
    "I'm not from here."
    "What do you mean you're not from here?" she asked. "You just told me you live here."
    "I do," Mark said. He took a breath. "I live here in 1959."
     

CHAPTER 6: MARY BETH
     
    Saturday, March 21, 1959
     
    Ten minutes later, Mary Beth stared at a copy of the Los Angeles News – a March 21, 1959, copy of the Los Angeles News – and then at the strange man she had captured in Geoffrey Bell's backyard. For the second time in less than an hour, she questioned her sanity.
    "Let me get this straight," Mary Beth said. She sat across from the home invader at a small table in the kitchen. "You've done all this with two rocks and a key?"
    Mark nodded.
    "The rocks activate the tunnel downstairs. The key opens the exterior door from the outside. I was about to use the key when I ran into you."
    Mary Beth smiled as she revisited the encounter in the stairway. She had not believed for a minute that Mark was from 1959, but she had let him enter the basement anyway because she believed him to be harmless and in need of help. Now that she was sitting in a venue that tested even her fertile imagination, she did not know what to believe.
    "I'm sorry for startling you," Mary Beth said.
    "That's all right, Miss—"
    Mary Beth extended a hand.
    "I'm Mary Beth McIntire. It's nice to meet you, Mark Ryan."
    Mark shook her hand.
    "It's nice to meet you too."
    Mary Beth paused to inspect her surroundings. She recognized the kitchen but almost none of its trappings. The table was different. So were the oven, the refrigerator, and cabinets. Pastel pink had replaced stainless steel. A percolator and a blender stood in place of an espresso machine and a toaster. Fancier paper covered the walls.
    Mary Beth had noticed other things as well. The heavenly basement she had explored in 2017 was now a dingy dump. The living room and the dining room sported furniture from Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best . Bright sunshine spilled through clear windows. A black telephone with a rotary dial sat atop a counter.
    "Where are the rocks?" Mary Beth asked.
    "Right here," Mark said.
    He reached into his pants pockets, retrieved two colorless crystals, and put them on the table next to a skeleton key. Each rock was three inches long.
    Mary Beth picked up one of the stones, held it up to the overhead light, and then placed it beside its twin. She tapped her fingers on the Formica tabletop as she thought of something to say. She still was not convinced this wasn't a dream brought on by undercooked food.
    "How did you know about the rocks and the tunnel?" Mary Beth asked.
    Mark reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded sheet.
    "I read this. It's a letter from Percival Bell, the man who built this house, to his wife."
    "May I see it?"
    Mark nodded and handed Mary Beth the letter.
    "He intended to travel to June 2, 2017, but I'm pretty sure he never did. I found the letter, the crystals, and the key in a locked drawer upstairs."
    Mary Beth read the letter.
    "I've heard of this man," she said. "He was the great-grandfather of the professor who invited my family here. Geoffrey Bell, our host, said that Percival died of a stroke only a few months after moving into