Five Past Nine
President Franklin Delano Roosevelt was at a podium in front of a joint session of Congress. Behind him sat Vice President Henry A. Wallace and Speaker of the House Sam Rayburn, and to his right was his son James. Directly in front of him were photographers and microphones from the three major radio networks. Everyone in the House Chamber of the Capitol expected Roosevelt to ask for a declaration of war following the previous day's bombing of Pearl Harbor.
"Mr. Vice President, Mr. Speaker, members of the Senate and the House of Representatives," the president began, "yesterday, December 7th, 1941, a date which will live in infamy, the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan."
Suddenly, FDR stopped speaking. As though a movie camera had zoomed in for a close-up, nothing in the room was visible except the bespectacled, pained and tired-looking face of the chief executive.
"It's time," he said, paying no attention to the written speech in front of him. "It's five past nine."
Naomi Sebert woke with a start, temporarily disoriented, not knowing where she was or even who she was. Her mind recalled an airplane, sandy beaches, palm trees and incredibly blue water. It took several moments, but the fog lifted from her brain, and she realized she was home in Massachusetts, sleeping in her own bed after returning from two weeks in Mexico.
I should have taken an extra day off, she thought, as she forced herself to get out of bed and get ready for work.
More than two hours later, slightly sunburned and exhausted from too many fun-filled days and late nights in Cabo San Lucas, she stepped off the elevator, walked down the hall of the high-rise building and entered the offices of Our History magazine.
"How was your vacation?" Woody Truitt, her managing editor, asked the moment she walked through the door.
"Too short, as usual," Naomi replied as she pulled out her chair and placed her handbag on her desk.
"Can you stop by my office after you've got your coffee? I want to discuss your next assignment. I hope you're rested and ready to work."
"Actually, I was hoping you would let me ease my way back into a daily routine."
"Sorry, but I want you to begin researching a story that will be featured in our Christmas issue."
"Christmas? It's only August."
"The December issue hits the stands in November. That gives you only three months."
"Three months to write one article? Are you kidding me?" Naomi laughed. "I could write a novel in three months."
"Glad to hear it," Woody countered. "Then this should be the best article you've ever written."
"Hoisted by my own petard! See you in a few minutes. Want me to get you a cup, too?"
"No thanks, I'm already on my third."
Naomi glanced at her watch. It was 9:05, and her editor had already finished two coffees. No wonder he was so eager to begin work.
"Okay, chief, what's the assignment?" she asked as she took a seat in front of his desk.
"You know the big Christmas tree they put up in Boston Common every year?"
"Yeah. Are you going to have me write an article comparing it to the one in Rockefeller Center?"
"No. I'll leave New York-Boston rivalry to the sports magazines," Woody laughed. "Do you know where we get those trees every year?"
"I heard we get them from Canada. I don't know the exact details, but I think it has to do with something that happened during World War I."
"You're close enough. The trees are a gift from our friends to the north in appreciation for Boston sending aid to Halifax after an explosion nearly leveled the city. See what you can find out about the tree here and then head up to Nova Scotia and research the explosion and whatever role Boston may have played in the relief efforts. I want you to do a good job on this story because I plan on making it the cover feature."
It would be only the second time in her six years at the magazine that Naomi would get a cover story.
"I'll get started right away, Woody," she announced eagerly and then left the editor's office and headed to the cafeteria for another extra-large cup of coffee.
* * *
On a small, black-and-white television screen, variety show host Ed Sullivan announced before an estimated seventy-three million viewers—nearly forty percent of the population—"Ladies and gentlemen ... the Beatles!"
The young girls in the studio audience screamed and applauded, their reaction a harbinger of the phenomenon of Beatlemania that would soon sweep across America. The cameras then panned to the four musicians on stage as they broke into their first of many hits, "I Want to Hold Your Hand." When the camera shifted from John Lennon to a close-up of Paul McCartney, the music and screaming decreased in volume until it could barely be heard.
In the distinctive accent of his native Liverpool, Paul said, "It's time. It's five past nine."
Naomi woke, fully rested. She stretched and then noticed the slivers of bright sunlight peaking at her from the perimeter of her room-darkening shades. Her eyes went to the alarm clock on her night table. 9:05.
"Shit!" she exclaimed, jumping out of bed. "I forgot to set my alarm."
She ran to the bathroom and into the shower. Then she dressed quickly and hurried out the door.
"I'm so sorry I'm late," she told the representative from the mayor's press office when she finally arrived for their meeting.
"That's all right. I had plenty of work to keep me busy while I waited for you. Now, Miss Sebert, I understand you want to talk to me about the Christmas tree in Boston Common."
"Yes."
"To get started, here's a copy of last year's press release as well as a list of celebrities who entertained at the ceremony. As you may know, the lighting was hosted by both the mayor of Boston and the premier of Nova Scotia. In attendance were also members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and, of course, Santa Claus. Now, do you have questions for me?"
"Yes. When did the first tree lighting occur?"
"Boston has lit a tree every year since 1941. Since 1971, the trees have been donated to us by the people of Nova Scotia."
The mayor's press representative then went on to describe how Boston authorities learned of the explosion in Halifax Harbor over the telegraph wire and immediately organized a relief effort. Despite being delayed by a blizzard, the first train made it to Halifax within forty-eight hours.
"In 1918, the year after the explosion," he continued, "Halifax donated a tree in appreciation for Boston's help. Then in 1971 the Lunenburg County Christmas Tree Producers Association sent the city another tree, in part to promote Christmas tree exports, but also to commemorate Boston's being one of the first responders to the disaster. Eventually, the city of Halifax took over the annual gift-giving custom as a gesture of good-will and a means to promote tourism."
Once Naomi felt she had enough information on the tree-lighting ceremony and the history of the Halifax-Boston connection from the American point of view, she thanked the press representative for his time and cooperation and headed back to her apartment. Once she arrived home, she immediately phoned Woody Truitt to keep him apprised of her progress.
"How's the story coming?" the editor asked.
"I've got enough material to begin my first draft."
"How can you start writing? You haven't been up to Canada yet."
"You do realize Monday is Labor Day?"
"So?"
"That means it's a three-day weekend."
"You just got back from vacation last week, and you're taking more time off already?"
"It's a holiday, for Christ's sake!"
"I know," Woody laughed. "I'm just busting your chops. Take your three days off, and go have a barbecue or whatever you do on Labor Day. But Tuesday get on a plane and head up to Halifax."
"Sure thing, chief. I can use another vacation."
* * *
More than six hours after the Eagle landed in the area known as the Sea of Tranquility, the hatch opened. With more than half a billion people watching, Neil Armstrong, destined to go down in history as the first man to walk on the moon, stepped out of the lunar module and climbed down the stairs. We can only guess at his initial reaction to his strange surroundings since the mirror-like reflection on his helmet obscured his face.
Armstrong, well aware that the moon landing, arguably the greatest human accomplishment in history, was being captured on film and audio for posterity, spoke the now iconic line: "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."
After a burst of static, the transmission from the NASA astronaut continued.
"It's time. It's five past nine."
A spray of cold water in Naomi's face startled her, waking her from another bizarre dream.
"Sorry," the nine-year-old boy said guiltily, having dove into the pool and splashed the woman on the raft.
"It's okay," she replied. "I shouldn't be sleeping in the sun anyway. I could get skin cancer."
"Time to eat," called Jonelle, her former college roommate, whose husband was manning the grill.
Naomi looked at the wooden picnic table covered with hamburgers, hot dogs, grilled chicken and a variety of salads and fruits. In a cooler nearby there was an assortment of canned sodas, beers, bottled waters, fruit drinks and iced teas.
"What army are you planning on feeding?" the journalist teased, wondering how the small gathering of friends was going to eat so much food.
"My mother always told me it's better to have too much than not enough. Besides, I like to send food home with people. You always liked my potato salad. I'll put some in a Tupperware container for you."
"I'd love to take some with me, but I can't. I'm going to Nova Scotia tomorrow, and I probably won't be back until the end of the week."
"What's in Nova Scotia?" Jonelle asked.
"Apparently Christmas trees."
* * *
Twenty-seven people were squeezed into Air Force One's sixteen-square-foot stateroom. One of them was the newly widowed Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy. The well-loved first lady, still wearing her blood-stained pink suit, had just accompanied her husband's casket from Parkland Hospital to Love Field. Now she stood beside Vice President Lyndon B. Johnson as he was about to be sworn in as the thirty-sixth president.
Jackie, dazed by the dreadful ordeal in Dallas, lifted her head, opened her pain-filled eyes and said, "It's time. It's five past nine."
Naomi woke before her alarm went off. She did not have time to wonder about the bizarre dream she had to catch an early a morning flight to Halifax.
Anticipating heavy traffic after the three-day weekend, she gave herself extra time for the drive to the airport. Surprisingly, she made it from her apartment to Logan in record time. After checking her bag, she bought a newspaper and sat down in the waiting room. She made it through three articles in The Boston Globe before the heaviness of her eyes forced them to close. Tired, she nodded her head several times in an attempt to remain awake, but it was a hopeless battle. The dream had made it difficult for her to get a good night's sleep.
In that surreal netherworld between wakefulness and sleep, where the rules of logic never apply, Naomi sensed she was in a large crowd of people.
Where am I? she wondered.
When her head came to rest on the back of the chair and the newspaper fell from her hands, she entered into the world of Morpheus and got an answer to her question.
* * *
Crowds of people filled the National Mall. From the Lincoln Memorial to the Washington Monument, there appeared to be a solid mass of marchers, broken only by the water of the Capitol Reflecting Pool. On the steps of the Lincoln Memorial stood Civil Rights activist Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., delivering a speech to the quarter of a million attendees of the March on Washington.
"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed," the Baptist minister and one of the founders of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference cried.
Yet he did not follow up this sentence with a quote from the Gettysburg Address as he had on August 28, 1963; instead, he uttered the words, "It's time. It's five past nine."
"Flight 905 for Halifax now boarding," the pleasant female voice announced over the airport's public address system.
Why do I keep having these weird dreams? Naomi thought as she headed for the gate.
Since they had begun immediately after she returned from vacation, she wondered if she could have ingested a drug while in Mexico. The idea was ludicrous, but even if she had, surely it would out of her system by now.
Naomi walked through the gangway, found her seat and settled in. She saw no reason to begin watching a movie since the flight was less than two hours. What she wanted more than anything was to lay back and go to sleep. However, she feared where her mind might wander if she did.
I don't want to witness JFK's inauguration speech next or, even worse, his assassination.
With the help of a can of Coke—thank God for caffeine—she was able to remain awake during the flight. She landed safely at Halifax Stanfield Airport and was soon delivered to her hotel. Using Canadian money, she tipped the driver.
"Thank you, miss," he said. "I hope you enjoy your stay here."
As she took the suitcase he had retrieved from the back of the van, Naomi looked into the driver's face and experienced a sense of recognition.
"Do I know you?" she asked.
"I've been shuttling people to and from the airport for the past ten years. I might have driven you on a previous trip."
"No, that can't be it. I've never been to Halifax before."
"Are you sure, miss?"
Normally, Naomi would have been miffed at the man's impertinence. After all, she ought to know where she had been. However, it now seemed like a perfectly logical question. With a shrug of her shoulders, she turned and entered the hotel.
"Reservation for Sebert," she told the desk clerk.
After the young woman checked the journalist in, she handed her a key and said, "That will be Room 905."
Naomi failed to take notice at the time of the significance of the room number. She was too preoccupied with the strange sense of déjà vu she experienced when the desk clerk smiled at her and wished her a pleasant stay.
I've seen her before, she thought. Maybe I have been to Halifax and can't remember.
After depositing her bag in her room, she went downstairs to the hotel coffee shop and ordered a lunch from a familiar-looking waitress.
Properly fortified, she left the hotel and hailed a cab, which took her to the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic where she met with Elgin Kipling, a local expert on the Halifax explosion. After the historian gave her a brief tour of the exhibits, they watched a short film on the tragic events that resulted from the collision of the Norwegian war relief ship, SS Imo, and the French munitions cargo ship, SS Mont-Blanc.
"That was just to give you some background on the explosion," Elgin said. "Now, we'll head over to my office where we can discuss the Christmas tree we send to Boston each year."
"Thank you," Naomi said in a barely audible voice.
"Are you all right, Miss Sebert?" the historian asked.
"Yes, I'm fine," she lied. "I was on vacation recently, and I'm still trying to catch up on my lost sleep."
At least I'm able to act like a sane woman, she thought, fighting a fear that had been growing inside her since she walked into the museum and was greeted by a man she was certain she had met once before.
To add to her mounting panic, while she sat through a video of the Halifax Explosion—an event she had never heard of before researching the Boston Common Christmas tree—each word the narrator spoke struck a chord in her memory like hearing the lyrics of a song she'd heard in her childhood.
What's wrong with me? she wondered, as Mr. Kipling enumerated the many ways the people of Boston aided in the relief effort after the explosion.
"On December 8, a train arrived from Boston carrying twelve surgeons, ten nurses and enough furnishings and supplies to set up a complete war hospital. The following day a second such train arrived, and another temporary hospital was set up. A Massachusetts-Halifax Relief Fund was established that provided building materials, clothing, furniture and other household goods."
By the time the car stopped in front of Elgin's office, Naomi was on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. The last thing she remembered the historian telling her was that close to two thousand men, women and children perished in the explosion. In many cases, entire families had been wiped out.
What's wrong with me? she repeated the question in her mind. When I went down to New York and researched an article on 9/11, I didn't let the tragedy prey on my mind.
Maybe it wasn't the explosion that was frightening her. Maybe the vivid dreams she'd been having since she left Mexico were symptoms of a physical ailment rather than a mental or emotional one.
Could I have a brain tumor?
Elgin walked around the car and opened the door for his passenger.
"My office is right here on the second floor," he announced, but the journalist was not listening to him.
"I ... I'm sorry. I ... I must get back ...."
Naomi turned to run, her only thought was to escape the fearful certainty that her life was about to end.
"Let me drive you if you ... Look out!"
* * *
There was another crowd of people. This time they were inside the Embassy Room ballroom of the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. Senator Robert F. Kennedy, brother of slain president John F. Kennedy, was acknowledging victory in the California's Democratic presidential primary. With his pregnant wife, Ethel, by his side, he leaned forward and spoke into the microphones.
"Now, it's on to Chicago, and let's win there." The sound of applause then faded, and he added, "It's time. It's five past nine."
Naomi's eyes fluttered open and focused on her surroundings. A nurse walked into the room, saw her patient was awake, and immediately ran out into the hall, calling for the doctor.
"You're awake," Dr. Damon Murchison said with surprise.
"What happened to me?"
"There was an accident. You were hit by a car."
As the doctor performed a cursory examination and the nurse recorded the patient's vital signs, Naomi searched her memory.
"I was meeting with Elgin Kipling," she said more to herself than to the other occupants of the room. "He drove me to his office, and I got out of the car."
"And you stepped into the road and were struck by an oncoming vehicle," Damon said, filling in the details.
"Am I all right?"
"You were in critical condition when you were taken to the hospital, but they managed to patch you up like new."
"They? But I'm still in the hospital, aren't I?"
"No. This is an extended facility. You see, you've been in a coma since the accident."
"For how long?"
"Well, you were hit by a car in September 2016, and it's now December 2017, so it's been more than a year," the doctor explained.
"A year!" Naomi exclaimed. "But what about my job? My apartment?"
"Just relax, Miss Sebert. To be honest, no one ever expected you to come out of the coma. It's a miracle you did. In a few days you can contact your boss about getting your job back, go home to America, find a place to live ...."
"I'm not in America?"
"No, you're in Halifax, Nova Scotia."
"When can I get out of here?"
"I'd like to keep you two or three days for observation. Run some tests. For now, why don't I have Nurse DeBaun bring you a cup of broth or cream of wheat to get you used to eating solid food again?"
Once the doctor pronounced her well enough to be discharged, a social worker provided her with clothing and a room for the night.
"This was the hotel I was staying at when I arrived in Canada," Naomi said. "I was in Room 905."
"I think you must mean Room 509."
"No. I distinctly remember the room number. It was 905, the same number as my flight."
"But that's impossible. As you can see, the hotel only has five floors."
* * *
This dream was different. There was no famous person stepping from the pages of history to alert Naomi that it was five past nine. Instead, it was a collage of ever-changing images that included Richard Nixon's resignation, the shooting of John Lennon, the release of the Iranian hostages, Barack Obama's first inauguration, the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, the end of the Vietnam War, the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the marriage of Prince Charles to Lady Diana Spencer, the demolition of the Berlin Wall and many other important events of the past century. When she finally awoke, just before dawn, her head was spinning as though she'd had a year's worth of History Channel programming condensed and force-fed into her brain over a seven-hour period.
Naomi put on one of the three outfits she owned and went to the hotel dining room for lunch. Since her appetite had not yet returned, she ate only a slice of dry toast and drank half a cup of coffee.
What I need most is exercise, she thought, leaving the hotel for a leisurely walk.
After exploring the streets of Halifax for more than an hour, she passed by a newspaper stand and noticed that all the headlines proclaimed that it was December 6, 2017, the one-hundredth anniversary of the explosion.
In the distance, she heard the chimes of a church clock.
One.
The fear that had been kept at bay since she woke from her coma returned with a vengeance at the echoing sound.
Two.
The terrified journalist suddenly found herself in a double exposure of time, where the images of the past were superimposed over those of the present.
Three.
Naomi's perspective changed. No longer just an observer, she became a grown woman trapped inside a child's body.
Four.
Two younger children walked beside her. One was presumably her brother, the other her sister. All three of them were on their way to school.
Five.
"Look!" the little brother cried. "One of the boats is on fire!"
Six.
"Never mind that," Naomi scolded him. "We don't want to be late for school. I'm sure Daddy will tell us all about it at dinner tonight."
Seven.
The children's father worked at the dock. He would have a bird's eye view of all efforts to extinguish the flames.
Eight.
The school came into view, just a five minute walk. Since classes didn't start for another half hour, there was no reason why the three children couldn't stop and watch the drama that was unfolding in front of them.
Nine.
I can't stay here, Naomi's adult brain thought, teetering on the edge of hysteria. I have to leave.
Given the surreal nature of her combined past-present surroundings, she had no idea how to get back to the hotel. Still, she couldn't stay where she was, so she began hurrying in what she hoped was the right direction.
Within minutes, Naomi found herself in front of City Hall, one of the oldest and largest public buildings in Nova Scotia. Her eyes travelled up the seven-story tower to the clock that read 9:05.
It's time, she thought, her mind repeating the prophetic words she had heard many times in her dreams. It's five past nine.
As though her brain was bringing a blurry image into focus, the people, places and things of 2017 vanished, and she was transported back to the year 1917. The journey was brief, and her stay was even briefer. No sooner did she recall Elgin Kipling's words—"In many cases, entire families had been wiped out"—than the SS Mont-Blanc exploded with enough force to obliterate all structures within a 2,600-foot radius.
Both the young girl's parents were killed in the blast, as were her brother and sister. For a century, her spirit had evaded its grim fate. Now, there was no escape. The people and events she had witnessed in her dreams—the history of the past hundred years—did not belong to her. All references to the Roaring Twenties, the Great Depression of the Thirties, the Second World War in the Forties, the advent of rock 'n' roll in the Fifties, the social upheaval of the Sixties and all knowledge of events up to December 6, 2017 vanished from her mind, leaving only the long-lost memories of a little girl from Canada who perished a century ago. For in coming home to Halifax, the soul of Naomi Sebert was finally laid to rest.
The image in the upper left corner is of the Halifax City Hall clock, one face of which is permanently stopped at 9:05.
I tried to give this tree to the city of Boston, but they wouldn't accept it--neither would anyone else!
