The Expeditioner’s Club
Volume One—Rio Roosevelt
by
Kate Moira Ryan
Timothy Elliott, the young master of this middle grade novel, is an ordinary boy at the beginning of an extraordinary life. Living in Brooklyn with his mother, he is just a kid who takes for granted the fact that his doorbell is the actual roar of a lion and that the animals of the great plains come alive at night inside his home at the Expeditioner’s Club. To him, it is all so ordinary; and boring. He is terrified first and delighted later when he learns that as the child of two expeditioners, he has been born with the ability to time travel, and what the plan for his life really is. Through his thrilling adventures, Timothy will discover the world as only an expeditioner can.
Smashwords Edition
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Published by:
Kate Moira Ryan on Smashwords
The Expeditioner’s Club
Volume One—Rio Roosevelt
ISBN 978-1-4523-1438-9
Copyright © 2010 by Kate Moira Ryan
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One – The St. Basil’s School for Boys
Chapter Two – The Great Egg and Spoon Races
Chapter Three – The House on Montague Street
Chapter Five – Walking through the Door
Chapter Seven – The St. Basil’s School Stowaway
Chapter Eight – The Annual Expeditioner’s Dinner
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Chapter One – The Saint Basil’s School for Boys
Timothy Elliott longed for a best friend. He wasn’t a shy boy, for he could talk to almost anyone with ease and if you asked any of the boys at St. Basil’s School for Boys they’d say, “Timothy’s a good chap. Top drawer.” As well liked as he was, Timothy kept somewhat to himself at school. He spent his days as an observer, careful not to get into trouble, and plotting how one day he might convince his mother to let him leave St. Basil’s for the Rainbow School. It wasn’t an easy argument to make because not only had Timothy’s father, grandfather, great grandfather and great great grandfather gone there, but to complicate matters even more, his great great-great Uncle Luddite had actually founded the school in 1832 after his twin boys Remus and Romulus had been expelled from every school in New York City.
Despairing that he would ever get his twin delinquents educated, Luddite had pooled together his great fortune from ship building and bought up an entire city block in Brooklyn Heights. He hired the well-known, but quirky architect Domenico Quaglio to design a school. Perhaps if he had hired a normal architect, he might have a school that looked like many others; regal and learning worthy, but, instead he had hired the man who would later design Mad King Ludwig’s famous castle Neuschwanstein in Bavaria. (Ludwig’s never ending project eventually bankrupted Bavaria, some but not everyone thought it the reason behind his mysterious drowning in the shallow lake fronting his monstrous home.) Like Neuschwanstein, the St. Basil’s School for Boys was designed to be a grand castle, but unfortunately, fifteen years into building it, Luddite Elliott ran out of money. The riding stable was never built, nor was the trapeze studio ever completed, and subsequently, St. Basil’s had a rather unfinished look about it. People in Brooklyn Heights called it the ‘crazy mud castle’ or the ‘Pelican Palace’ on account the school mascot was a pelican and a flock of pelicans swam in its moat.
On an official state visit to the Big Apple, England’s Prince Charles ordered his limousine to stop in Brooklyn so he could take a closer look at the structure he had read about, but never seen. A noted critic of architecture in his own country, the next in line to the throne was rendered speechless as he took a long gander. Getting back into his car, residents of Joralemon Street still swear he mumbled, “I say, now that is what I call a monstrosity.”
And while Brooklynites have gotten used to the imposing edifice, they have never ceased to marvel at St. Basil School’s endless array of attire. It has always been a school of uniforms. You see, Uncle Luddite’s wife Tabitha loved to dress her miscreant twins, and the uniforms she designed live on to this day. There were no less than twenty uniforms for the boys’ various activities, and each one required a complicated list of accompanying accessories. None of the uniforms have ever been updated, and they are still made by venerable clothier Brooks Brothers who maintain a shop within the school and employ an aged, rather unfriendly clerk who goes by the name of Mr. Edgewear. The uniform for art is a white, smocked shirt gathered at the sleeves and tied in the back with a satin maroon sash. (If that weren’t enough, it has a matching maroon beret adorned by the school’s crest, a pelican).
The uniform for ice skating (the moat freezes over and the boys skate for their cold weather physical exertion class) consists of red corduroy knickers buttoning at the knees. It also has a matching short wool cape with tiny elephant tusk buttons. To top the outfit off, the boys must wear a Tyrolean hat with an ostrich feather peeking out.
If a boy wears the wrong uniform or forgets an accessory, he is given a demerit. Fifteen demerits add up to one whole hour of detention in the dining hall; a room of elaborate carved wooden benches and tables which reek of cabbage and treacle pudding. A boy is not allowed to read in detention or do his homework. He is not allowed to do anything but practice sitting still. And most of the time, the boys sit and stare at the ceiling painted to replicate the Sistine Chapel, except the stars of the frescoes are Luddite’s twin hellions Remus and Romulus depicted in St. Basil’s twenty different outfits. Whenever Timothy spends time in detention, he stares up at his cousins cursing them for his own fate.
The only thing at St. Basil’s more outdated than the uniforms are the teachers. Miss Sprackle, Timothy’s head teacher, was a woman so aged that she often fell asleep, head on desk. She slept so soundly and so deeply, that the boys would just play foam ball dodge ball for hours in the classroom instead of studying their Esperanto verbs. No one actually learned very much at St. Basil’s. Oh, they learned enough to go to the colleges where their parents had gone, and to go on and join the banking firms where their fathers and mothers worked. But, St. Basil’s was not known for its thinkers. The thinkers, artists, and dreamers went to the school up the block on Henry Street called the Rainbow School. At the Rainbow School, the students (it was for both boys and girls) studied subjects such as geology, playwriting, tap dancing and finger painting. Clothes were suggested, but not always required. Often children showed up in bathing suits in December and snow pants in June. They call their young teachers by first name and are never given demerits or detention. They choose their own course of study; so if someone wanted to study shoe making, they’re given a leather apron and a set of tools. And for a full year they learn math, science and philosophy through being a cobbler. Timothy Elliott longed to go to the Rainbow School. From his turreted classroom on the tenth floor, he could see students from the Rainbow school head to classes in the converted horse stables on Henry Street. Timothy yearned to be one of them. He yearned to be uniformeless, to be free, to be well something he was not, HAPPY!
Timothy once broached the subject with his mother while they were at the St. Basil school store purchasing the odious red and gray wool knee pads required for Leap Frog, (a game played competitively at no other school other than their own).
“Mother, I have a question,” (children at St. Basil’s were required to call their parents Mother or Father. Never Mom!, Mommy!, Mama or Dad, Daddy, Dada or even Pops. The motto of the school was the Latin phrase Mos Res which when translated meant –“Manners matter”).
“What, Bud?” Timothy’s mother Kate always winced when he called her “mother”, but rules are rules, and she wanted to set an example so she had to abide by them.
“Why can’t I go to the Rainbow School?” Timothy whispered as softly as he could. The aged Mr. Edgewear still overheard and nearly fell from the library ladder on which he was precariously perched. Dusty white cardboard boxes of knee pads came flying out from the shelves.
“The Rainbow School. They’re nothing but a bunch of feral ignorant hippies at that school running wild and. I heard they’ve done away with pencils there and type things on something called legtops,” Mr. Edgewear shouted as he scooped up a box of kneepads marked medium and slammed them on top of the brass cash register.
“Laptops, Sir. They’re computers.” Timothy rolled his eyes. Computers in any form were forbidden at St. Basil’s School for boys.
The clerk harumpped again and slammed down a big dusty book on top of the cardboard box of kneepads. “Perhaps, a little school spirit is in order.”
Timothy looked at the title of the book, St. Basil’s an Unabridged History and groaned. He opened to the first page and read aloud, “St. Basil’s was founded because one father set out on a mission to provide the best traditional education he could for his twin boys.”
‘Who were bat stinking crazy,’ Timothy added under his breath, but then he thought, at least Remus and Romulus had a father.
Timothy’s father had died on top of Mount Everest when Timothy was a year and a half old. His father, Tim, had been an adventurer and writer who was doing a story about mountain climbing when a blizzard came through and knocked him off the summit. Wedged into a crevice, Tim called his wife from his satellite phone to say goodbye. The last thing he said was, “About Timothy, be sure to send…” but he never finished the sentence. Kate took it to mean “be sure to send him to St. Basil’s.”
Timothy would often look at the picture on his dresser of his father holding him as a baby. In his heart of hearts, he knew that his father had meant, “be sure never to send him to that uptight, old fashioned school with the outdated scratchy uniforms.”
At St. Basil’s, being without a father was difficult, to say the least. Nearly every special event required that a son bring his father along. They had father son breakfasts, dinners, ice skating events on the moat in the winter, spoon and egg races, and of course the annual fall leapfrog competition. For these odious events, his mother enlisted Miguel, a friend who waited tables at their favorite Spanish restaurant, La Nacional on 14th street in Manhattan. Miguel would arrive at school in jeans and a tee shirt while the fathers all wore the same pin striped suit from Brooks Brothers and the St. Basil school tie littered with the pelican mascot. They’d stare at Timothy and Miguel with pitying looks on their faces. At least Miguel was young and handsome while all the fathers at St. Basils looked old and tired. It might have been the suits they wore, or the fact they worked day in and day out in windowless offices on Wall Street and never got enough sun. No one really knew why, but as soon as a man enrolled a son at St. Basil’s. His hair would turn gray. Miguel hated the school, “You know Timothy, this school is so weird. In Spain we no play leapfrog. Tell me is leapfrog even a sport? And the fathers are so boring. I don’t want you turning out like that. I’ll talk to your mother.”
And Miguel would try to talk to Kate, but he wouldn’t get anywhere. So Miguel relented and bought a black sport coat from a fancy Italian clothing store along with some dressier leather sneakers from an even fancier Italian shoe store and they stumbled along through games of leapfrog and choked down treacle pudding.
“The food here is horrendous,” Miguel complained, “It’s like out of the Oliver Twist cookbook. Here, I brought a plastic bag, scrape it all in here. Later I’ll take you to the restaurant and we’ll have some paella. I am talking to your mother when we get home.”
And so time went on, year after year, until Timothy Elliott became friends with Milo Heron.
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Chapter Two – The Great Egg and Spoon Races
Timothy met Milo by accident. On a crisp fall day, en route to yet another father-son event, (the great egg spoon races), he tripped. He didn’t trip because he was running late. He tripped because the world suddenly went out of focus. He rubbed his eyes and for a moment he thought he saw horses galloping in the street. It was as though he had fallen into a time hole. He shook his head again and cars were back where the horses had been. He felt himself falling off the curb and saw his silver spoon dropping down into the sewer. He panicked. It wasn’t just his spoon, it was his father’s spoon, his father’s father’s spoon and his father’s father’s father’s spoon. He saw it glittering in the muddy depths of the sewer and all he could think of was Headmaster Treadwell’s angry brown face. “You mean to tell me Elliott,” (at St. Basil’s all the boys are called by their last names). “You mean to tell me you dropped your spoon down the gutter?”
Every boy’s spoon at St. Basil’s had a story. Freedom Treadwell could trace his roots at St. Basil’s back almost as far as Timothy. His great-great-great-grandfather had escaped slavery through an underground railroad and had been adopted by Luddite and joined Remus and Romulus as their classmate. Freedom Treadwell’s spoon had been cleverly swiped off a plantation by a frightened eight-year-old boy who figured if he was ever reunited with his family he could show his owner’s family crest to identify himself. Timothy’s spoon had been tucked into his great-great-grandfather’s blanket. It had been used to identify the infant after he was rescued by the ship Carpathia when the great ship the Titanic sank.
“Oh fiddlesticks and jingerboxes!” Timothy muttered the swear words approved by St. Basil’s. A boy sitting on the next stoop paging through a cookbook came down to peer into the sewer.
“I could teach you some better swear words. Like much better.”
Timothy looked up and saw a boy about his age with long red hair wearing a tie dyed Rainbow School sweatshirt and ripped jeans.
“I bet with a fishing pole attached to a net I could scoop out whatever you dropped. But if it’s like a umh, you know, a cell phone, it will be finito if it fell into that mucky water.” The boy squatted down next to Timothy to take a closer look into the sewer.
A cell phone? Timothy wanly smiled. There was one phone at St. Basil’s, it had a big round dial and it was in the office. It was only used to summon parents when a student had done something very, very bad. (Like the time when Francis Doyle had been caught putting Silly Putty up Miss Sprackle’s nose. He had woken her from a deep sleep and she was outraged to discover Francis delicately pinching her nostrils.)
Timothy could barely find his voice. He cleared his throat and held out his hand and greeted him St. Basil’s style.
“How delightful to meet you. My name is Timothy Elliott.”
Milo looked at Timothy’s hand, unsure what to do with it. But then, he grinned and slapped it giving a sideways high five. ‘I’m Milo Heron. We used to live over on Hicks, you know, but then my mom had Simon so it got crowded. Come on in and I’ll see if I can find my fishing pole.” Timothy straightened his tie and nervously followed Milo inside. Moving boxes were piled floor to ceiling. Dozens of paintings leaned against the walls waiting to be hung.
In the living room he saw three year old Simon watching the television which was precariously perched on a box marked “FRAGILE, GRANDMA’S CRYSTAL” in black magic marker.
Timothy could hear a woman shouting a slew of swear words he secretly wished were approved by St. Basil’s. “Oh, that’s my mom, Margaret. She teaches art the Rainbow School. She’s always running late.” Milo started digging through a box marked “Milo’s stuff”. “I’m pretty sure the fishing pole is in here. Hey, what’s St. Basil’s like?” He asked genuinely curious. “You guys have so many wild outfits.”
He stared with great fascination at Timothy’s egg and spoon race outfit which consisted of a tall chef hat and an apron (on account that the eggs were real).
“I hate it, ” Timothy said glumly. “I hate it so very much. I wish I could go to the Rainbow School. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to go to school there.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” Milo said as he dug deeper into the box. “They’re always wanting you to talk about feelings there. That kind of stuff. It gets old.”
Talk about feelings? At Saint Basil’s feelings were not allowed. “Stiff upper lip, Gentlemen,” Headmaster Treadwell would say when one of the boys was about to cry. “There will be none of that sniffling and whining.”
“Ah, here it is.” Milo pulled out a fishing pole. “All right come on man, we’ll get your spoon out.”
He followed Milo outside where they ran smack into Miguel who was out of breath from running towards St.Basil’s.
“Timothy what are you doing? We’re going to be late!” He panted.
“Sorry Miguel. I dropped my spoon in the sewer.”
“O dio!” Miguel swore in Spanish. “What are you going to tell that man who waits at the door looking at everyone’s spoons? Oh! Dios mio aqudanos!” He looked at Milo quizzically. “Who’s this?”
“This is Milo. He is going to help me get the spoon out.”
“That’s some hair, Milo. If you went to the prison Timothy goes to, they would make you shave it off. Rapido. You know his school? It’s like oppressive. Like Franco was in Espana.”
Timothy did not know who Franco was, but he imagined he wasn’t good for Spain because every time Miguel would start ranting about the St. Basil’s School for Boys, Franco was always part of the equation.
“You better get that spoon, Timothy, or there’s going to be in big trouble.” Miguel sat on the stoop. He took out his cell phone and began texting. “Aye don’t get me started on this school.” But he was already started muttering the words, ‘Franco”, “That School” ”Dio help us all if the spoon is not found,” while Milo fished for the spoon.
Just as Milo pulled up the spoon, Edmund Walker walked by with his father Skip who looked slightly sleepy and a bit stunned. In his rush to get out the door, he had forgotten to put on shoes and was wearing big bright orange slippers with giant white plastic eyeballs that blinked as he walked.
“Timothy you had better get a move on, I forgot it was the egg and spoon races today. And I had to run back and get my spoon and my father. Let me tell you, Treadwell is in fine form today.”
“Edmund, listen buddy, I need a cup of Joe. I’ll be back in five.” Skip shuffled away towards the coffee bar on the corner.
“Be back in five, Father,” Edmund shouted after him. “I swear it was impossible getting him out of bed this morning.” Unlike most fathers at St. Basil’s, Edmund’s actually worked outdoors building houses, and sometimes he even slept in.
“What are the egg and spoon races?” Milo asked as he pulled up Timothy’s spoon.
Edmund noticed him. “And who pray tell are you?”
“This is Milo, he goes to the Rainbow School,” Timothy answered.
Edmund looked at Timothy wide eyed. “You know someone who goes to the Rainbow school?”
“Yeah, what’s wrong with that?” Timothy looked at Milo shining up Timothy’s spoon on the bottom of his sweatshirt.
“Bunch of long haired hippies and freaks over there. Not exactly, the right crowd of people you want to be associated with, is it, Timothy?” Edmund looked down the block for his father. “No offense, Milo but you know the Rainbow School is St. Basil’s sworn enemy.”
Milo looked at Edmund and seemed to grow excited, “Excellent. Does that mean we get to fight and beat each other up?”
Milo was not a small child and he towered over them both. Edmund suddenly grew nervous, “Well, no, but I think you catch my drift about how we’re rivals, distant, but still…”
“I wish I could go to the egg and spoon races,” Milo sighed at he handed the spoon to Timothy who put it safely in his apron pocket.
“I think the last time someone from the Rainbow School tried to enter St. Basil’s they were stopped at the door and sent packing,” Edmund said. “Your hair is way too long to sneak you in, plus, we’d have to get you the right uniform for the right event on the right day. I suppose it could be done, but it’s not that easy.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize it would be so difficult.” Milo sat down on the stoop looking crushed.
“Well, come on then, we don’t crash your puppet parade do we?” Edmund looked down the street and saw his father shuffling along holding a coffee cup that was so large it dwarfed his face. “Here’s father. Hopefully that cup of Joe will put a little pep in his step. Look, Milo, you seem like a nice chap. Maybe we can sneak you in sometime. Perhaps, during the annual tie tying ceremony.” Milo looked crestfallen.
“We never have anything fun like that.”
“You’ve got the Haiku Olympics.” Timothy knew all about the Rainbow school’s precise poetry competition, because he had heard two kids practicing on the street.
“Snow melts
And suddenly,
The Village is full of children!” One of the children had yelled while his classmates (or comrades as they were actually called), cheered him on.
“It’s not the same, you guys have all these cool traditions,” Milo said, downcast. The bells of St. Basil’s rang furiously to summon the boys inside.
Milo suddenly looked panicked. “Man, I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to have my presentation of Boeuf Provencale ready by noon. I’m spending the year mastering the art of French cooking.”
“Hey thank you for finding my spoon and all that,” Timothy said before Milo headed off.
Milo nodded as he ran hurriedly up the street.
“What time do you get home from school?” Timothy called out after him.
Milo turned around and smiled broadly, “Well, it depends on whether I have recreational arts or not.”
“What’s that?” Edmund asked kind of horrified.
“I guess what you guys would call gym except nobody wins any of the games. We play basketball without a basket. Most of the time we just pass the ball and dribble. It’s soooo boring. But I’m usually home around four.”
Miguel got off the stoop. “You ready, Timothy?”
They were met by Headmaster Treadwell at the door. Each of them held up their spoons for his inspection.“Very good, Walker,” he nodded approvingly at Edmund and his father.
“Well then Elliott who do we have here?” Treadwell had been introduced to Miguel over and over, but each time Miguel came, Treadwell would insist that they had never crossed paths.
“Sir, allow me to present Miguel Belmonte, he will be assisting me in today’s egg and spoon races.” Timothy said for what seemed like it may have well been the four hundredth time.
“Well now, Mr. Belmonte welcome to the St. Basil School for Boys.” Treadwell pumped Miguel’s hand vigorously. “It’s a pleasure to have you.”
Miguel opened his mouth, but decided better to leave it alone. He followed Timothy out into the Games Hall, a giant gymnasium which housed the fencing court as well as speed walking track. Four hundred boys of all ages and sizes dressed exactly alike lined up with their fathers by grade.
Timothy grabbed two eggs from a giant silver plated Pelican platter. He handed one to Miguel.
“Get ready Miguel.” Timothy put his egg on the spoon. Miguel followed suit.
“You know I always thought bull fighting was crazy, but this is how you say goofdey.”
“Goofdey? Do you mean goofy?”
“Whatever, Timothy. This is bizarre. Even under Franco we no had huevos and cucharita races.”
When it was their turn to run, Miguel and Timothy took one step and then tripped over one another splattering egg onto Timothy’s apron and Miguel’s shoes. They won the Scrambled Egg Award.
After a celebratory lunch of beef stew and treacle pudding, Timothy went back to class and Miguel went back home to take a siesta before his shift at the restaurant.
Miss Sprackle opened a dusty copy of the “Odyssey”, a poem written thousands of years ago by the blind Greek poet, Homer. He told the story of Odyseuss, a solider trying to make his way home after the disastrous Trojan War. Miss Sprackle called on Edmund to read. He dutifully opened his book and turned to the page of his favorite comic book, CAPTAIN ACTION KID which he had inserted inside the Greek tome. He read loud enough for his classmates to hear and in a serious enough way that the nearly deaf Miss Sprackle thought he was telling the tale of Odysseus’ long and trying journey home.
‘Listen man,” Edmund read with a great deal of emotion and most serious look upon his face, “You’re not dealing with a run of the mill broken down super hero, you’re dealing with Captain Action Kid, and I am dope to what you’re not coping to.” “Captain Action Kid pulled his arch enemy Le Stupido off the chain link fence. He belted him with his super duper laser gun loaded with frozen marshmallows. POW POW POW…”
Miss Sprackle fell fast asleep and the silent dodge ball game began. It was a day like any other, until something made Timothy look up towards the door as he made a diving catch. There he saw Headmaster Treadwell peeking in, wide eyed. Edmund motioned for Timothy to throw the ball, but stopped in his tracks when he saw Timothy’s expression. He looked in the direction Timothy was looking and mouthed, “uh oh.” Francis Doyle turned to see why the action had stopped and promptly fell off Miss Sprackle’s desk. Silently all the boys skulked back to their seats imagining the lecture to end all lectures, but the headmaster turned suddenly on his heel and walked away.
And so the day went on. After Miss Sprackle woke up from her nap, she marched the boys down to chapel for their holiday concert practice. They took out their wooden recorders and blew the chords of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” under the stained glass portraits of Romulus and Remus attired as angels blowing trumpets. The boys blew knowingly and blissfully out of tune, while their tone deaf music teacher, Mr. Irving Vaid, conducted them as if we were conducting the Boston pops.
“Splendid boys. Just splendid,” He shouted energetically.
Francis Doyle nudged Timothy with his elbow and nodded towards the back pew. There sat Headmaster Treadwell observing the boys with a quizzical look upon his face. Timothy had never seen that look on the headmaster’s face before and it started to worry him.
When the clock hit 2:30 the boys silently filed out. They expected to be stopped and reprimanded at the massive exit doors by Headmaster Treadwell who stood there every afternoon to shake the boys’ hands. To their collective shock, he shook each boy’s hand as he did each day, and said nothing about what he had observed. Relieved, Timothy and his chums headed to their favorite hangout; the Japanese grocery store/sushi bar across the street.
“Chaps we’re in quite a pickle,” Edmund said.
“If Father finds out about my latest shenanigan, I’ll lose my cribbage game for real this time,” Francis moaned.
“I wonder how old Miss Sprackle really is. I think she once told me that she taught my grandfather Timmy,” Timothy wondered aloud.
“That would make her over a hundred years old. My father told me she taught him and that my great uncle Whitmore also had her,” Edmund added.
The door of the Japanese grocery store swung open and Trey arrived, pushing Jacob in his wheelchair inside.
“Cheese and crackers, Trey, watch it!” Jacob shouted as he narrowly missed knocking over the giant thermos of Miso soup that sat atop the counter.
“Sorry Jacob. I’m starving. Wasn’t lunch the most wretched thing ever?” Trey hungrily eyed all the ready-made California rolls in the refrigerator case. “Look at them, they’re just ripe for the picking.”
The boys pooled together their spending money and got as many rolls as they could afford which was two and half to be exact. Some girls from the St. Agatha School for Girls located nearby on Remsen Street sat at the far end of the counter sipping Miso soup. They looked at the boys and giggled, instantly turning all five boys bright red. Timothy however, did sneak a peek at one of them and smiled shyly, which made the girl giggle even more madly. Francis, the only one with a sister, whispered knowingly, “Girls giggle at anything.”
“I can’t believe that one day we’ll have to marry them,” Edmund sighed.
“If I have to get married, I am marrying one of those girls from the Rainbow school. They look like more fun,” Jacob said as he shoved the last piece of a California roll in his mouth.
They all looked at him stunned.
“Well, they do,” Jacob shrugged.
“Well, if I get married and have a son. He is not going to St. Basil’s. That’s for sure.” Timothy sipped his green tea which came free with a purchase of a roll, and since he was the only one who liked green tea, he got two cups.
Jacob nudged Trey who shrugged.
“What are you two up to?” Timothy asked.
Jacob looked around and when he was sure that no one was spying on him, he pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.
“What’s that?” Timothy looked over their shoulders.
“It’s an application to the Rainbow School,” Jacob whispered. “I’m escaping.”
“Escaping? How flipping far do you think you’re going to get in a wheelchair?” Francis chuckled.
Trey stood up and faced Francis Doyle. “I’m going with him. We’re both putting in an application.”
“Are you out of your cotton picking minds?” Edmund almost shouted. Of all the boys, he was the only one who didn’t mind going to St. Basil’s.
“But how are you going to afford it?” Timothy asked.
“My brother Ethan gave me his Bar Mitzvah money. He said one of us has to get out.”
Timothy was shocked. At St. Basil’s, Jacob’ family went almost as far back as his own. In fact, Jacob’s spoon was from his namesake who had fought in the American Revolution.
“I am not wearing anymore of these outfits.” Jacob yanked on his tie like a noose.
“Well, you’ve got to study one whole subject for a year.” Edmund folded his arms. He did not like what Wilson and Jacob were up to, not one bit.
“I know. I know. I’m going to study tap dancing,” Jacob whispered.
Francis guffawed, “What do you mean you’re going to study tap dancing? You’re in a flipping wheelchair!”
Jacob glared at Francis.
“I’m going to study the movies of Gene Kelly.”
“Who was that?” Timothy asked fascinated.
“A movie star in the 1940’s. He was a tap dancer. He did that movie Singin’ in the Rain! And you know Francis, I wasn’t always in this wheelchair. I remember how it was to walk. Okay?”
Jacob had been in a car accident which had left his lower body paralyzed.
“And if I want to study tap dancing, I can dang well study tap dancing,” Jacob pounded the table with his fist.
Everyone was silent for a while. Then Francis mumbled something under his breath.
“Yes, pray tell, Francis what now?” Trey glowered at him with his arms folded.
“Knitting. If I were to go to the Rainbow School I’d spend the year knitting.”
No one said anything for a minute. “But, Jacob and Trey even if you get into the Rainbow School, how are you going to convince your parents to let you go?” Timothy asked.
“We’re not. We’ll show up for Miss Sprackle’s class and then high tail it over to the Rainbow School,” Jacob explained.
“In uniform every day?” Timothy persisted.
“No you nincompoop! We’ll change into appropriate denim attire en route to school.” Trey rolled his eyes.
“I think the whole idea is preposterous,” Edmund said. “The Rainbow School? Really come now, Chaps, have we really stooped to that?”
“Milo, that boy we just met goes to the Rainbow school.” Timothy reminded him.
“Milo seems like a good bloke, Timothy,” Edmund said “But, you remind him that we can’t sneak him into St. Basil’s if his hair is that long. Well, I’ve got to go, Chaps. See you tomorrow then.” He stood up, slinging his black leather satchel bag across his shoulder. Francis followed him out the door. And then Trey made his way, pushing Jacob out the door in front of him. Timothy was left all alone. He lingered a bit to see if any of the girls from St. Agatha’s would talk to him, but they just ignored him. Girls were a mystery not to be solved this particular afternoon.
* * * * *
Chapter Three – The House on Montague Terrace
On his walk home, Timothy felt his legs go weak. The world became blurry and cabs pulled by horses appeared on the streets again. He looked around and saw men in formal suits, and women in long dresses walking past him. He slapped his head with his hand and the present day world came back into focus before he knew it and he was in front of his home. From his satchel Timothy took out a five pound key and opened the door to a mansion built in the 19th century by his great-great-grandfather Timmy who had conducted a fatal expedition to the North Pole. After a search party found him frozen to his sled, his mansion was turned into the Expeditioner’s Club. Like most clubs, one had to be invited to join, and in order to be invited, one had to journey somewhere extraordinary. Members of the club had discovered the North Pole or walked on the moon. All of Timothy’s relatives (both men and women) had been members of the Expeditioner’s Club and it was expected that one day Timothy would complete an expedition and be invited to join as well. But for now he lived there with his mother Kate, who ran the club. They lived in five spacious rooms at the back of the house. The other 36 rooms were organized like a sort of disorganized museum chock full of cheetah pelts, elephant tusks, propellers (and for those who are curious, they did belong to Amelia Earhart). In addition to keeping everything dusted and journals organized, Timothy’s mother arranged a lecture series for visiting expeditioners (they stayed in a suite of rooms on the 4 ½ floor). Timothy always looked forward to these talks. It confirmed to him the one thing he knew to be absolutely true; the world outside of St. Basil’s was a thrilling and fascinating place. And one day he would see it all.
After dropping off his satchel, Timothy walked over to Milo’s house on Henry Street. He rang the bell and then suddenly felt quite nervous. What if Milo really did not want to be his friend? What if he was just being nice? Aside from Miguel,Timothy had never had a friend outside of St. Basil’s. He waited for what seemed to be an inordinate amount of time. Just as he began to walk away Milo swung open the door and shouted. “Hey, Timothy! I’m so happy you came by. I had a horrible day. My beef Provencale was a disaster. Jed says I have to do a do over. C’mon in.”
“Who’s Jed? And what’s a do over?” Timothy asked as he followed Milo inside.
“Jed’s my teacher and a do over is when you have to do your assignment over. My mother is going to kill me. Do you know how much it costs to feed twenty kids lunch?” Milo looked miserable.
“Is she here?”
“She’s writing comments.”
“On what?”
“Her students. We don’t get grades. We get comments. And I have to watch Simon. He’s really into plugs right now.” Milo took the fork out of Simon’s hand and pulled him away from the outlet. He handed him a small metal car, “Here take this and play parking garage.” Simon took the car, smiled and then flung it hard at Milo.
“Simon! No! Ouch!” Milo grabbed the remote control to the television and turned on the cartoon channel. He was clearly at his wit’s end. “He’s not supposed to be watching television now, but he’s being so bad that I don’t know what to do. My father’s not getting home for ages on count of the economy being so bad. He’s been working later every night and I promised him that I’d help Mom with Simon.”
Timothy knew the economy was bad. All the fathers and mothers at St. Basil’s had scrunched up worried looks about them during school drop off and pick up. Last month’s school paper had devoted three pages explaining the sub-prime mortgage meltdown. It had pie charts and graphs. Timothy could not make head nor tail of it.
“Do you want to take him over to my house?” Timothy was sad to see his new friend look so down. “He could play with the elephant tusks.” Milo perked up immediately and went into ask his mother.
“Simon would you like to see some real live elephant tusks?” Timothy asked.
Simon squealed with delight at the TV. He pushed Timothy out of the way impatiently. Timothy turned around to see what Simon was watching. On the screen he saw a bunny rabbit chasing a small screaming pig with a hammer. Simon giggled madly when the pig got slammed.
Their mother, Margaret came running into the room.
“Simon Heron how many times have I told you that you’re not allowed to watch the Crazy Kid Cartoon channel?” She took the remote and clicked off the TV.
Simon looked at her stunned and then began to wail.
“And also Simon, it’s not TV time, it’s free play time.”
“Then get me a bunny and a hammer!”
“SIMON!!” Margaret yelled and then she noticed Timothy awkwardly standing there. He cleared his throat and went over to shake her hand.
“Mrs. Heron, allow me to introduce myself, my name is Timothy Elliott and I live over on Montague Terrace.”
“I’m Margaret, Milo and Simon’s mom.” Margaret looked closely Timothy. “I heard you go to St. Basil’s. Milo wishes he could go there. And by the way, you have beautiful manners.”
Timothy did have beautiful manners because his mother insisted and all the boys at St. Basil’s were required to take the Irma St. Paul Manners course. (The syllabus had not been changed in over a hundred years and some of the lessons were a bit outdated. Besides knowing a fish fork from a meat fork, what most distinguished a St. Basil’s boy from any other was the old fashioned way they spoke.)
“Pray tell, could you kindly direct me to the nearest store selling juvenilia entertainment” was bound to confuse some people. It would have been far easier to ask, “Where is the nearest toy store?” But taking the easy route was not the Irma St. Paul Manners way, so it was not the St. Basil’s way.
“Milo told me that you’ve invited him and Simon to your house.”
“Yes, my mother’s home so there will be the prerequisite adult supervision.” Timothy tried to sound mature and confident hoping Margaret would say yes.
“Sounds good. Now listen, Milo I want you home by six. Trina’s coming over. And thank you Timothy for inviting both of them. I just have so much work to do.”
Margaret looked exhausted. She was relieved to see her sons off so she could get a couple of hours of peace.
Milo caught Simon by the ankles and put a jacket on him. Simon pounded imaginary bunnies with a stick as they walked over to Timothy’s house.
At the door Timothy took his enormous key from his satchel and placed it in the lock with two hands and turned the lock.
“That’s the biggest key I’ve ever seen.” Milo exclaimed.
“It weighs over five pounds. There is only one key maker left in the United States who still makes these keys. He lives in Castine, Maine.” When Timothy turned the key in the lock, a lion began to roar. Simon and Milo jumped back in surprise.
“What sort of place is this?” Milo asked.
“Oh, this is the Expeditioner’s Club.” He pointed to the bronze plaque next to the door. It was engraved with the words, “Expeditioner’s Club. Established 1908.”
“The doorbell is the sound of a Lion from the Kalahari desert.”
He led them into the hallway where they hung their jackets on coat hooks made of deer antlers. Simon’s pacifier dropped out of his mouth and he yelled, “Bolar pear!” Pointing to the life sized Polar Bear guarding at the first floor landing.
“Yes, Peary brought him back from some expedition. Would you like to meet my mother?”
Mouths agape, the two boys followed Timothy wordlessly into the parlor on the second floor. Milo gripped Simon’s hand and pulled him back from patting the stuffed penguins.
“Oh, he can touch them. The penguins are getting moved back to the basement. Mother’s doing a big exhibition about Lawrence of Arabia in the spring so she’s bringing his camels from the basement. A garage over on Atlantic Avenue is trying to repair his motorcycle that was shipped over from England.”
Timothy found his mother in the other room, entertaining the balloonist, Richard Branson. They were looking intently at a map of the world. When Richard saw Timothy he broke out into a huge toothy grin.
“Timothy! I brought you some sweets.” He handed over a chocolate bar the size of a large book. “There should be enough for you and your mates,” he winked.
Timothy smiled. He lived for Branson’s visits. The man never stopped. Among other things, he had founded a record company, an airline and a cell phone company. And although he managed a vast empire, he was never too busy to spend time telling Timothy of his latest adventure circumnavigating the world in a balloon.
He thanked Branson for the gifts and introduced him and Kate to Milo and Simon.
Kate cautioned the two of them to watch out for Simon’s hands around the teeth of the Sabtertooth tiger. “They’re awfully sharp, Timothy.” They needn’t have worried as Simon was content to play with a bow and arrows Australian Expeditioner Oscar Bauman had brought back from the Masai tribe in Africa.
“Does all this belong to you, Timothy?” Milo asked amazed.
“Well, not exactly. We Elliotts are kind of the keepers of it. We make sure it’s here for past and future Expeditioners.” Timothy picked up two swords and handed one to Milo. “Apparently, these belonged to Christopher Columbus.”
They started fencing, leaving Simon free to explore.
“What do you have to do to become a member of the Expeditioner’s Club?” Milo asked after they had laid down their swords and helped themselves to the hot chocolate and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies Kate had brought in a tray.
“You have to go on an expedition and then you have to come here and tell all the current members about it. And if they think it’s a worthy enough, you get voted in.” Timothy pointed at the elephant tusks. They weren’t ordinary tusks as they had four horns instead of the usual two.
“You see those tusks, Milo? They’re the only ones like them in the world. This expeditioner named Stanley brought them back from Africa. Rumor has it, if you touch them and make a wish, your wish will come true. But, be careful what you wish for. One expeditioner wished he’d become famous. And he became so famous, that he was too famous.”
“What’s so bad about that?”
“Someone kidnapped his son and he never got him back,” said Timothy. “And my father…”
“I was wondering about your father. You haven’t mentioned him. Is he on an expedition?”
“Well kind of.”
“When’s he coming back?” Milo asked.
“He’s not. He was scaling the summit of Mt. Everest. There was a blizzard. And he died on the mountain.” Timothy blinked back tears. It was stupid to cry for someone he never really knew.
Milo let go of the elephant tusks, “I don’t really need to wish for anything.”
An arrow whizzed by narrowly missing them. It bounced off the stuffed gazelles, landing at their feet. Simon let out a whoop.
“Maybe it’s not such a good thing to play with that.” Milo said taking the bow and arrow away from Simon who was now rolling on the ground giggling sticking his tongue out at the cheetah.
The enormous grandfather clock struck six.
“We’d better go. But, can we come back? It’s so cool here. It’s like you live at the Museum of Natural History or something.” Milo took another look around. He still could not get over this place.
“Sure whenever you want.” Timothy grinned. He knew he had met his best friend. From that moment on, as soon as school and their activities were over, the two, well actually if you include Simon, three boys, would never really be apart.
* * * * *
The fall leaves gave away to snow and soon it was December. Timothy continued to have what he called, ‘time attacks.’ They often came up, just for seconds at a time when he was on Joralemon Street on his way to or from school. Sometimes in his dreams he would see himself walking beside men and women dressed in clothing of long ago. As time went on, the images in his time hole became less blurry and more defined. He wanted to tell his mother about what was happening, but she seemed to get more and more busy as the holidays approached. Before he knew it, it was time for Winter Sing which meant winter break was upon them.
Miguel and Kate attended Timothy’s holiday concert. They sat through two hours of recorders blaring and boys singing holiday medleys loudly out of tune. Afterwards, they stayed for the holiday party suffering through mulled cider and truly ancient fruitcake. At noon, the boys were dismissed and free of St. Basil’s for three whole weeks. Timothy and Milo had planned each day of winter break with exacting precision. That night, to celebrate their freedom, they were going to camp out in the Kalahari room. Timothy had already set up a tent and helped his mother pull out the old projector so they could watch Expeditioner Sir Ernest Shackleton’s home movies of the Arctic. After a dinner of bison burgers, they were going to make s’mores in the fireplace.
An hour before Milo was due to arrive, the doorbell rang. Timothy opened the door surprised to find Milo standing there with Simon in tow. Timothy eyes widened in surprise. Both Milo and Simon had matching crewcuts. Milo held a wrapped gift in front of him.
“What’s happened to your hair?” Timothy asked, horrified. They both looked like chickens plucked of their feathers. Timothy had never noticed how big Milo’s ears were.
“My grandfather does not like boys with long hair.” Milo miserably followed Timothy inside.
“Why not?” Timothy asked.
“He’s a retired marine. Man I don’t want to spend three weeks there.” He sat down on the armadillo arm chair glumly. The food in England is horrible. Simon! Those are real cannon balls. Don’t….Simon!”
Too late. Simon rolled a cannon ball knocking over the polar bear which swayed and started to fall narrowly missing all three of them. It landed with an enormous thump on the thick Oriental carpet that the writer and expeditioner Paul Bowles had sent from Morroco.
“England? You’re going to England?” Timothy was dismayed. What was going to happen to their three weeks of plans?
“My Dad told me last night. He wanted it to be a surprise. We’re leaving tonight. I was so looking forward to hanging out with you. Mom says I can only stay a couple of minutes cause I got to go home and pack. I just came to give you this. Happy Hannukah or Merry Christmas or whatever you celebrate. We’re Jewish so we do Hannukah.”
He handed Timothy the wrapped gift, “It’s a Buche De Noel made with a Genoise cake and chocolate buttercream, and garnished with powdered sugar and raspberries. It’s my end of term project.”
Timothy took the cake and handed him his present. Milo hurriedly unwrapped it and found his own St. Basil’s uniform.
“Edmund, Francis and I all chipped in parts of our everyday uniform. We’re going to sneak you into St. Basil’s after break,” Timothy explained. “And with your new hair cut we can probably get away with it.”
Milo broke out into a grin. “Thanks. Man, this is so freakin’ rad!”
Timothy wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but he could tell Milo was happy.
“Tell Edmund and Francis thanks for me.”
“I would, but Edmund has already left for skiing in St. Moritz and Francis is on his way to Dublin for a leapfrog competition with his father.” Besides St. Basil’s, it was one of the few schools to play leapfrog.
Milo and Timothy awkwardly shook hands.
“I’ll email you,” Milo said, and then he remembered Timothy did not have a computer. “I’ll write you. I promise. Simon, get down from there!” Simon was climbing the wall onto the Arctic sled Admiral Peery had used to reach the North Pole.
After Milo left, Timothy climbed into the tent in the Kalahari room and sat inside clicking his flashlight on and off.
Kate came in with two dinners on a tin plate.
“Where’s Milo? Dinner’s ready.”
“He’s going to England for the winter holidays. He just found out.” Timothy pushed the plate away. “I’m not hungry.” And he pulled the tent flap shut and tied it.
“But…”
“No one’s around. Everyone’s gone. I hate this house. We never do anything. We never go anywhere.” Timothy flicked the tent with his fingers.
“Where would you like to go?” Kate asked her son touching him through the fabric, “We could go anywhere.”
“I want to go away with a friend. Not you.” Timothy immediately regretted saying this, but it was the truth. For as long as he knew it was always just him and his mother. If only he had a brother or a sister. If only his father was alive.
“We could visit your cousins Jean Jacques and Jean Paul in Paris.” His cousins lived in an equally old and large house devoted to French expeditioners. His cousins were fun, if a little wild but they spoke little or no English. At St. Basil’s Timothy was required to take two years of Esperanto – which was kind of like European Pig Latin before he could specialize in a language people actually spoke.
Timothy turned off his flashlight. Kate waited for a moment. He could see her shadow. He knew that she was trying to come up with something else to say, but after another minute she left.
The sun set inside the Kalahari room and the moon rose on the ceiling, Timothy listened as the wolves, lions, and cheetahs came to life. Like many of the rooms in the Expeditioner’s mansion, this one had magical qualities. An elephant slowly lumbered past him with her calf close behind. The hoofs of a gazelle galloped as a lion moved in for the kill. Timothy had never really thought it odd that the plains of Africa came alive every night in the middle of Brooklyn Heights, but he knew that Milo would find it fascinating. Timothy was tired; the day had been long and the disappointment great. He soon fell fast asleep, but was woken up by the sound of a man yelling. He climbed out of the tent gripping his flashlight. The loud sound was coming from the guest room on the 4 ½ floor. The door swung open and a man appeared in long knit underwear holding a net.
“I can’t find anything dang it, and I’m leaving tomorrow.” There was something familiar about the man, but Timothy couldn’t place him. He searched for the visiting Expeditioner’s name because whenever an Expeditioner was in residence their name would be posted on the door. Timothy blinked when his eyes focused on the name. He had to read it twice to make sure he got it right. President Theodore Roosevelt.
“Are you the boy from St. Basil’s?” President Theodore Roosevelt bellowed at Timothy.
“What?” Timothy turned around to see if anyone was behind him.
“St. Basil’s said they were sending me a student, an assistant to help me. Are you Timothy Elliott?” He bellowed.
“Umh, yes, but…” Timothy stuttered.
“Good, we’re leaving tomorrow. I’ve given your mother a list of provisions you’re to bring…”
Kate came in with a battered trunk. “Is this all right President Roosevelt?”
Timothy stared at them both, his mouth open wide.
“Mother? Is this some sort of crazy dream?” Of course it had to be a dream. He had fallen asleep in the Kalahari room and now was in his own time attack.
“Timothy.” Kate said quietly “You know that every Elliott has been a member of the Expeditioner’s club since it was founded.”
“Yes, but umh…” Timothy blinked furiously and slapped himself on the side of the head. Blinking often helped him get out of a time attack.
“How do you suppose we all got to be Expeditioners?” Kate asked him. Theodore Roosevelt or (TR as he was known) looked at her incredulously.
“You mean Katie Elliott, you’ve never explained to him what he needs to do? I’m gob smacked. Really I am.” TR huffed a bit.
“This is a dream, like the time attacks I’ve been having, “Timothy said insistently to both of them, but neither would listen.
“Timothy, you become a member by going on an expedition.”
“Uh, huh.” Timothy wondered if he would wake up if he pinched himself.
“At age ten, a future Expeditioner starts to go on trips,” his mother explained. “When I was ten, I flew across the Atlantic Ocean with Amelia Earhart.”
Kate had also come from a family of expeditioners. Her parents had traveled the world in a sailboat and as a result she had never stayed in one place for long. When she met Timothy’s father, she told him, “You can go where you want, but for once in my life I want to put down some roots.” And so she became the official caretaker of the Expeditioner’s Club, the house where her husband had grown up, and now her son too.
“Okay. I’d like to get out of this time attack please!” Timothy shouted.
“What are you talking about?” Kate asked concerned.
“I’ve been having these time attacks for months. The world becomes blurry and I see weird things and I fall into a time hole,” Timothy finally explained.
“Honey, your mind is just getting ready to time travel,” Kate explained.
“Yes siree, your mind is getting ready to go with me to the Amazon to map an undiscovered river.”
TR looked at Kate annoyed, “Really Kate, you might have explained this to him before I showed up and scared the living wits out of him.”