December 24, 1919
Philadelphia

Cal surveyed the work going on below, hands clasped behind his back and a smug smile on his face. Things were going smoothly at the mill—at all of the mills, in fact—and he was confident the success would continue well into 1920. A few months earlier there had been rumblings of dissent among the workers, but a series of strategically planned firings had silenced them. At Hockley Steel the word union was the dirtiest anyone could utter, and as long as Cal had any say in the matter, it would remain that way.

"Sir?" He turned and found himself looking into the face of a pale young man. His eyes were a watery blue, and if his hair hadn't been a bright red, they would have been almost impossible to notice. As it was, his flaming locks set them off perfectly. Tentatively, he held out a sheaf of papers. "I was told you give these to you," he said.

With a grunt, Cal took the papers. "What is this?" he asked. "What am I supposed to do with a list of names?"

"It—it's a list of the men who plan to walk out if you—"

"Walk out?" Cal thundered. He seemed to have nearly doubled in size.

The messenger, a recent hire by the name of Leon Robeson, mentally kicked himself. Why the hell did I agree to do this? I don't care if the mill's open on Christmas. I don't have anything to do tomorrow. "That's what they're saying," he said, choosing his words carefully. "They're threatening to strike if you make them work tomorrow."

Cal's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?" His voice was like silk. "How very interesting. You wouldn't happen to know who is behind this pathetic attempt at sabotage, would you?"

Leon took a step back. "Well, sir, I—"

Cal reached into his pocket. "Don't try my patience. Loyalty is as much a commodity as anything else."

*****

That afternoon, Cal walked home for the first time. He was in such a good mood when he left the mill that the prospect of walking a few miles in the frigid December air actually sounded invigorating. He had crushed an uprising before it could even begin, and that filled him with the kind of elation usually reserved for the claiming of a particularly difficult sexual conquest. He kept up a brisk pace, ignoring the cries for money he encountered on just about every corner. Damn fools with their buckets and bells, he thought. Don't they know giving money to the rats just encourages them?

When the evening's round of Christmas parties was finally over and his wife had been dispatched to her own room—sex was one thing, but actually sleeping with her was quite another—he let out a satisfied sigh and settled into his favorite chair by the fire. He was tired, but there was no need to go to bed yet. He had the luxury of sleeping in the next morning, unlike his workers.

Suddenly, he heard a sound like footsteps outside his door. It almost sounded as if whoever it was was dragging their feet across the floor. An irritated Cal threw open the door. The hallway was empty. "What the hell?"

"Hello, Cal." He spun around. His heart skipped a beat. In the chair he had just left sat a young man of perhaps twenty. He had soft, curly dark hair. His clothes were the plain pants and shirt with a vest poor men usually favored. He wore a cap that matched his shirt. "I didn't expect you to return the greeting," he said. He spoke with an Italian accent.

"Who are you?" Cal barked. "How did you get in here?"

"Forgive me." He swept the cap from his head. With a little bow, he said, "My name is Fabrizio Di Rossi. I was sent here to kill you." Cal gaped at him. "I'm joking!" Fabrizio said. "Really, I am. I was sent here, but ending your life had nothing to do with it."

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Cal thundered. His eyes blazed. "You sneak into my house, threaten—"

"I didn't threaten you. I played a joke on you." Fabrizio looked thoughtful. "I had this friend who was fond of playing such jokes on me. He did it so much you'd think I would’ve gotten used to it, but I fell for it every time. He'd turn to me, serious as death, and convince me something awful had just happened, and as soon as I opened my mouth, he'd—"

"That is all very fascinating," Cal said, picking up the phone receiver. "And I'm sure the police would love to hear it."

"Go ahead. Call them."

"What?"

"Go on. I don't mind. There's a blizzard going on out there, and I'm sure they won't mind hurrying across town in it to investigate a guy talking to himself."

"I'm talking to you, you damned fool!"

Fabrizio stood up. "Yeah, but only you and me know that. See, I was sent here to give you a message, and the kind of message it is is one only a certain kind of person could deliver."

"Well, whoever your boss is, he can't that impressive if you're the best he could do."

Fabrizio chuckled. "I expected you to say something like that. I know a little bit about you, most of it stuff I heard from my friend. You know, the one I was telling you about? Yeah, he had a lot to say about you. Didn't like you at all."

"As if I care," Cal said, his voice thick with disgust. "Get out."

"I will. Got to give you the message first."

"And that is?"

"You need to change, and soon. ‘Cause if you don't, some stuff that's not too good will happen."

"And where did you acquire this insight?" Cal spat the word. "That friend of yours?"

"He's a pretty insightful guy, but no, it wasn't him. I doubt he'd waste his time on you. But why take my word for it? C'mon. I'll show you."

Cal eyed Fabrizio’s outstretched hand warily. "I have to hold your hand?"

"Don't want to lose you."

Reluctantly, Cal placed his hand in Fabrizio’s. A moment later, the room fell away. They were flying through icy blackness. Cal struggled to breathe; his lungs felt as though they were freezing in his chest. And then it was over.

"We didn't go anywhere!" Cal said. "We're still in my study! What the hell did you do?"

Fabrizio looked around. "You sure we didn't go anywhere? It looks different in here to me." He pointed to the chair by the fire. "I know that wasn't here before."

Cal's blood ran cold. A body was slumped in his chair. It appeared to have fallen forward and remained that way. Black hair obscured the top of the face. The left arm hung limply. The ring was bent against the chest, the hand pressed against the chin. It held the end of a pistol. "What is this?" he stammered. "Just what the hell is this?"

"It's your future."

Cal whirled around. "That is not my future!" he yelled, pointing at the body. "That is some poor dead bastard, but it isn't me!"

"Not yet, but in about ten years it will be."

"Ten years? What are you—" Cal's eyes fell on the newspaper on the table. "1929. That can't be right. It's 1919. It must be—"

"It's correct. This is what happens to you in 1929. After the Crash."

"Crash?" Cal's mind raced. He couldn't focus on a single thought for more than half a second. This couldn't be happening. Such things weren't possible. Someone had to be playing a very elaborate trick on him. One of his competitors, possibly, or some of those workers he had fired. He took a deep breath. "This is not happening," he muttered.

Fabrizio laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know it must be…distressing for you, but—"

"Isn't that a big word for someone like you?" Cal sneered.

"I had a pretty good grasp of English before I died," Fabrizio said calmly. "And it's true what they say about all things beings revealed in death."

"You're crazy. This isn't happening. I'm going home."

"Fine. I'll take you home."

"Wait. Um…before we go…why did I do it?" Cal took a step toward the body. "I don't understand. What could have possessed me to do such a thing?"

"The Crash—the stock market crashed in 1929," Fabrizio explained. "You lost everything. Just about everyone did, but it was worst for the people like you, the ones who went from having more money than you could spend in seven lifetimes to having nothing in less than an hour. Some threw themselves out their office windows. You did this." Cal looked as though the wind had been knocked out of him. "C'mon," Fabrizio said. "Time to take you home."

Cal didn't feel anything on the return trip. When Fabrizio stepped away from him, he didn't notice. "Guess you don't want to see the rest, huh?" Fabrizio asked.

"There's more?"

"Well, that's what your future could be. There are a lot of ways your future could go, depending on your choices. I'm not gonna spend the night showing you all of 'em, though. That's the one they said would most get your attention."

"And I suppose you're going to show me my past now?" Cal asked with a quiet snort. Now that he was no longer staring at a corpse that bore a disturbing similarity to himself, his disgust with the situation came flooding back. Of course that wasn't real, he told himself. You let someone like him frighten you? What have you come to?

"No. If this were a book by Dickens, I would, but if this were that book, you would have a past worth taking a look at."

"And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"You don't have anything in your past that would do anything to change you. You didn't start out sweet and innocent and then get corrupted by the big, bad world. You were told you were royalty since the day you were born, and you never did anything to resist that."

"I suppose you're going to say that makes me a terrible person? I bring what happens to me on myself?"

"My friend would say it's more complex than that. Sometimes when we'd be sitting around, especially when it'd be a group of us complaining about some rich bastard like you, he'd say there was more to it than whatever we were saying. Though he never said that about you," Fabrizio added, chuckling.

"Is that so?" Cal gave him a withering look. "This friend wouldn't happen to be that miscreant I fired today, would he?"

"Rodney Pickens? No. Though you might like to know he spent a few hours with a gun in his hand tonight trying to decide who to shoot, himself or you. Rate you're going you might not make it another ten years."

"And I'm supposed to be changed by that? It's his own fault he lost that job. Scum like him will ruin this world unless people like me stop them."

"You know," Fabrizio said, "this is an awfully gloomy room for it to be Christmas. Don't you celebrate?"

"Of course. I make the round of parties."

"Yeah, but where's your kid? I mean, you were staying up tonight, probably gonna drink alone. What were you gonna do with your son?"

"I—"

"You know what? I'm gonna show you what Christmas is supposed to look like."

Before Cal could protest, Fabrizio grabbed his hand and they were falling through the icy blackness again. It was even colder where they landed. Snow swirled around them. Cal hunched his shoulders. "Where are we?"

"Wisconsin."

"What's in Wisconsin? Where are you going? Don't you walk away when I'm talking to you!" Cal hurried to catch up with Fabrizio. They stopped in front of a small, two-story house. "What's in there?"

"Go look," Fabrizio said. "Window's right there."

Cal got as close as he could to the glass without touching it. The window looked into a large room. A fireplace was on the opposite wall. A worn couch was in front of it. The rest of the room was bare, save for few candles. Two people sat on the couch. One had blond hair and the other had red.

Rose sighed happily and laid her head on Jack's chest. "I still can't believe you're back. I was afraid I would never see you again."

He hugged her tightly. "I was coming back," he said. He buried his face in her hair. The scent of lavender filled his nostrils. "I knew it all along. I wasn't gonna die in a field in France."

She twisted the front of his shirt in her fingers. "I'm just so happy you're with me."

"Nice, isn't it?" Fabrizio asked.

Cal's face twisted. "This is what Christmas is supposed to look like? If that's true, I'll keep what I have—which is more than they'll ever have."

"That room might look empty, but it's not. They love each other more than enough to make up for all that money they don't have."

"How very sweet." Cal's voice dripped with sarcasm. "I'm so glad things worked out for the rat and his whore."

"I didn't want to show you this," Fabrizio said, "but since you're refusing to admit you have feelings, I've got no choice."

The next thing Cal knew, they were standing in the front parlor in his house. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. His wife sat on the couch, along with a man he didn't recognize. His son stood near the fireplace. "Cecelia, are you sure you're all right?" the man asked.

Cecelia nodded. "I just can't believe he's dead. I…" She let out a short laugh. "He's not in my life anymore!"

"Why isn't she upset?" Cal asked. "I'm dead! And she has nothing!"

"Keep watching," Fabrizio said.

"I'm sure this must be a difficult time for you," the man said. He took her hand. "You know I'm here for you. If there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Who the hell is he?" Cal snapped. "I haven't been dead a day and already she has a replacement? And why isn't he upset?"

"Who? Your son?" Fabrizio asked. "What's there to be upset about? As far as he's concerned, a stranger just died."

"Take me home," Cal said flatly.

"Do you get it now?" Fabrizio asked.

"Take me home."

*****

Cal watched the sun rise. A forgotten drink was on the table next to him. He hadn't moved since Fabrizio left. When the housemaids began to stir, he rang for his valet. "Call Roberts," he said when the sleepy-eyed man arrived. "Tell him…tell him I've decided to close the mills today."

"Are you sure? Sir, didn't you decide—"

"I changed my mind," Cal said coldly. "And tell him to find that rat Pickens. I want to talk to him on Monday."

"Right away, sir."

"And Smith?"

"Yes?"

"Find my son as well."

The End.

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