I’m feeling a lot better, but I’m still healing so my arm’s in a sling. It still hurts some, but it won’t stop my plan. My father’s gray suit pulses with the cinnamon scent of magic in my hands, its fabric feeling alive as I pull it on. Magic thunders, warming my skin as threads of light weave around me. The suit shimmers with electric energy. My mouth gapes wide in awe as its colors begin to swirl and change from a dull gray to a deep navy blue. It molds itself into a three-piece suit with a fitted jacket that has lapels and pocket flaps, a vest buttoned tightly over a crisp white shirt, and navy pants as the suit adjusts itself to match the era I am heading to.
There’s a popping sound, and the smell of burning cinnamon and fabric fills the room. A ring of sunlight spins around my neck. With a blinding explosion of white light, a navy tie forms. In the mirror, a gleaming halo circles my head with a heavy warmth, before melting into a matching fedora on my head. Rings of white light whip, loop, and dip around my feet before glossy black leather shoes with shining brass buckles appear on them. I wonder who spelled this suit to change based on where and when you aretraveling through time. Right now, it’s custom-made for my adventure in 1893 Chicago with Emma.
“Retro cool,” I say, smiling at my reflection in the mirror on my dresser. I wonder if this suit ever changed into this style for Dad. I smile at the thought that he and I will have walked in the same shoes. I fish my golden vintage lighter from my pocket, tilt it on its side, and carefully rotate the tiny dials on the cryptex, programming in the date and location where I’m headed.
Emma, I’m on my way!
I bite the inside of my cheek as I dive through time, headfirst. Swirling colors that drip like oil paints on a black velvet canvas surround me. I fight the pull of gravity and look over my shoulder. The gold-purple fiery door slams shut as I dive into the past. Sprinklers of light splash the darkness. I soar by crescent moons with a silver glow and Caribbean suns that ripple like liquid gold inside velvet blackness. Stars twinkle as I fly by them. Some explode like fireworks, showering around me with multicolored streaks of white, sapphire, and sienna before fading into the deep darkness surrounding me.
The smell of cinnamon and candied yams floods my nostrils.
The world blurs into a black-and-white movie. Time winks backward. I look around, trying not to miss anything. Beneath me, the bones of old buildings become strong and new and then disassemble, leaving construction sites in their place. As time passes, the sun sets and rises. Seasons change with leaves, flowers, and snow. Aging elders become young again. A flock of singing birds fly backward, whizzing past my cheeks, as I try to flop out of their path. The crescent moon crowns treetops, before spikes of sunlight stab the clouds above the mountains at sunrise. My heart beats happily as I take in all the beauty and majesty of life.
As I get closer to my destination, the world shifts into muted colors. Then children’s sepia baseball gloves turn bright again. Red streetlights glow like the cherry tips of cigarettes, and coils of dark steam rise from the asphalt. The distant, cigar-like chimneys of miniature-looking housespaint the hazy sky with ash-colored smoke. Starlight twinkles in the black velvet blanket of the sky like tiny diamond buttons.
Time slowly rolls back to normal. Everything’s bigger and closer as I soar over Hyde Park in Chicago, 1893. The sun casts dancing shadows through the greenery below. The ornate rooftops of Victorian houses peek from beneath the canopy of leaves below me. Every house is unique, with extravagant towers, gables, and turrets painted in bright shades of reds, blues, and oranges. The colorful homes stand proudly beside neighboring houses made of brick and white stone.
I get closer to the Chicago World’s Fair and see the shine of the radiant jewel beyond the busy city blinking in the sun. The Ferris wheel spins tall and proud as the Columbian Exposition’s neoclassical buildings reflect the morning light, making the fairgrounds shimmer like rising waves in a breathtaking sea of white. I see the Court of Honor, with its grand arches and towering columns, all wrapped around the crystal-clear water of a reflecting pool at the center. Smack in the middle of everything stands the Statue of the Republic, a massive symbol of ambition and progress.
They call this place “the White City,” which is fitting because Black people were completely erased from “the Woman’s Building” and the image of America that the fair was projecting. But I love this place the way you love a dysfunctional family member. I can appreciate the fair’s beauty despite the fact that its board members thought the existence of my people and our accomplishments were somehow divisive. It doesn’t surprise me; white supremacy always tried to dim our light and delete the world’s knowledge of her sins.
As I soar above, gorgeous gardens bloom around the fair in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors, creating a bold contrast against the white cityscape. Fountains shoot graceful arcs of water into the air, their droplets sparkling like crystals in the sunlight and painting tiny rainbows all around. Beyond, Hyde Park spreads out—a maze of residential streets, public parks, and people trying to live their best lives.
Suddenly, my body jolts, tilting downward. Another door of gold-purple flame materializes under me. It hovers about three feet over a tree, encircled by white flowers in a less crowded part of the fairgrounds. Thedoor flings open and spits me out. I crash onto white petals and bulging tree roots. Pain ricochets through my sore arm with a sharpness that makes me gasp. Exhausted, I lie in my agony, the throbbing making me wonder if this trip was the best choice.
A little girl with red curls stares at me, her mouth open wide. She jumps, pointing. Her white lace collar and pink frilly dress bounce. “Mommy, Mommy!” she squeals. “That darkie fell from the sky!”
Her auburn-haired mother swats her bottom with an open palm. “Darkies don’t fly! Stop telling lies if you want to ride the Ferris wheel.” Bottom lip poked out, the girl looks down at her feet as her mother tugs on her arm, forcing her to continue walking toward the big wheel.
Their words are a punch in the chest. Dang. It didn’t take the past long to welcome a brother back, did it?
History always has a way of reminding you that you’re Black and that the world won’t always love you the way you love it. But I won’t let the flaws of this time period steal my joy. I remind myself that she’s just a kid. Her words are the result of what she’s been taught. None of it is worth arguing with white folks about and getting myself lynched. Besides, I’m here on a mission. I got business with Emma. So I run my palm down over my face and exhale my frustration. My chest loosens, and I try to reclaim my dignity. Years of experience should have hardened me to the ugliness of returning to a past hostile to people who look like me. But humiliation and name-calling are things you never get used to. They sting.
Every.
Damn.
Time.
At least Emma wasn’t here to witness it. Her face flickers in my thoughts, and I feel renewed strength course through me. I grip the rough bark of the tree with my good arm and pull myself to my feet. I stand tall. Today is about seeing Emma, making plans, and finding a way to break the chains the curse has latched on to our families. So we can be free of the Tether. Be free to live fully without its looming threat dictating our choices.
I smell sugar and dirt. Kids skip by with glacé fruit, chocolate confections, and Cracker Jack as dust clings to my navy three-piece suitand the sling shielding my arm. I ache as I brush away the dirt. I walk toward the Ferris wheel. It’s massive: twenty stories tall. The wheel is slowly spinning and illuminated by colorful spirals of twinkling bulbs that stretch high into the sky. The swaying carriages paint a sweeping arc in the air above me. The gentle creak of its machinery sounds as I feel a soft breeze on my skin. I look up and see the little girl who insulted me earlier kicking her feet and enjoying herself on the ride. Her red hair catches the breeze, and she narrows her eyes in a glare when she notices me. So I smile. Her head tilts in a confused irritation that somehow amuses me. I won’t let people and their feelings about my race get in the way of my plans today.
I sigh, look for Emma, and silently hope that people and their stupid hate for other people won’t result in these pretty fairgrounds being splattered in blood. Especially mine.
I look for threats from this time and any sign that Emma is setting me up. She could have come early to lay a trap. Big-Mama could be right about Baldwins being something we can’t trust. So I’m torn between my heart that wants peace and my mind that says meeting this girl is dangerous—hell, even crazy. But the chance of finding peace for my family is worth the risk. My lips curl into a smile when I don’t detect danger. Maybe my heart wins this round. She’s probably not double-crossing me. Now let’s hope she’s not standing me up.
“Ma-a-an,” I whisper to myself as I take in the fairgrounds. “It’s beautiful here. Emma’s gotta love this place.”
Hopefully, her goal isn’t to murder me in it.
The Ferris wheel casts a gentle shadow on the ground, like the sweeping hand of a clock, making me look around and wonder how much longer she’s gonna be.
So far, the morning has been relatively peaceful. I appreciate that.
Peace is hard to maintain when you’re a time traveler like me. Being a brown-skinned eighteen-year-old Black boy makes navigating the past tricky. I’ve had some scary close calls. I’ve been lucky, blessed, and covered by Ma’s prayers. So I can’t decide if I’m being brave or stupid to take risks like coming here to meet Emma. I hope meeting a girl from a family thatis destined to kill mine or be killed by mine isn’t the thing that makes my luck finally run out.
I walk farther into the fair and get met by the boom boom of drums. A line of belly dancers sway their hips seductively, their bodies draped in bright fabrics of sapphire blue, ruby red, and emerald green as they dance. The glittering jewels decorating their costumes blink in the sun, sparkling like morning stars. The dancers’ noses and mouths are covered with veils, but their eyes are lit with excitement. Twinkling beads and sequins glimmer and wave, as their flowing fabrics sway. The crowd watching them is decked out in the modest style of the late nineteenth century: women in long, structured dresses or full skirts with bustles and petticoats underneath and layers of ruffles along their bodices and high lace collars gripping their necks; men in tailored suits, cravats, top hats, and amused smiles.
