Zelda

Cassie could feel her legs sticking to the seat’s plasticy cover. She drummed her fingers against the keyboard and exhaled, “hmmmm”. Stupid research papers. Stupid her for choosing something on a whim. Stupid her for waiting until the last minute. 

She stretched back against her chair and yawned. Books and papers were scattered around the glowing white screen of her laptop, spilling off of her desk onto her bed and the floor. She unstuck her legs one at a time from the bottom of the chair and got up. She wandered over to her bed and lifted Max into a hug. He blinked at her sleepily and started to purr. “Everyone else is out doing fun New Year’s things aren’t they?” She plopped him back down onto her comforter, but he uncurled himself, hopped off the bed and padded across to the window. 

She sighed and returned to the desk, realizing suddenly that it was dark. She switched on her desk lamp, soaking her papers in a yellowish pool of light. Every article she could find on F. Scott Fitzgerald. What she should have done was pick something easy and dry, and not something she knew she wanted to delve into. 

But some small part of her usually pushed to the side had reached up and seized it’s chance. And here it was again. She had a perfectly fine paper. She shifted in her chair, tucking one leg up beneath her. But it was missing something. She had no idea what. It just felt dead. Dry. The practical side of her brain popped back. Weren’t research papers supposed to be dry? 

She squinted at the tiny clock in the corner of her screen. 10:57. She wondered why her professor hated New Year’s enough to make a paper due at midnight on the 31st. She glanced at the clock again. 10:59. Normally she was a night owl but she felt the lateness of the evening settling in around her. She glanced at Max, sleeping on the bed again. It was quiet enough enough she could hear his soft breaths, rising and falling with his gray coat. What was her paper missing? 

She felt her own breath flutter in and out of her, slowing gradually. The sharp frame of her glasses dug into her head, so she took them off, and laid her head down against the desk for a moment.

It was light when Cassie jerked awake to the unfamiliar sound of a train passing, close enough to slightly rattle the window panes. It’s horn sounded loudly, and she groaned in confusion. She felt around the desk for her glasses, and her hand collided with something that didn’t feel like her laptop. 

She lifted her head. A typewriter sat in the place of her laptop, one that looked genuinely old, but puzzlingly new. Her papers were gone. There was a Max-shaped dent on her unmade bed. She frowned. “Max?”

She untangled herself from her desk chair, stiff from sleeping in the chair and hurried across her room into the bathroom, where Max sat on the windowsill, chattering anxiously at the street below. “Hey bud, there you are.” 

She leaned over the toilet and peered out the small window. The bathroom window was the only one in the apartment on the front face on the building, more brick apartment buildings at eye level, and a busy street beneath. She hurried back through her room and grabbed her glasses from her desk, shoving them on her face, and swinging down to look out the window again. 

The street crawled with gorgeous old cars. Groups of people walked along the sidewalks dressed in vintage costumes, ladies in fancy coats and feathered hats, men in suits. “Uhhhh Max, are you seeing this?” Cassie straightened. Her shower looked normal, the mirror was old-fashioned looking in the first place, and then her gaze landed on the toilet. It looked like something from a museum, with flowers on the seat cover, and a little chain hung down beside it in lieu of a flusher. 

She whirled around and stood in the doorway of her bedroom. No more laptop. Her usually stuffed bookshelf stood half-empty. She walked over and craned her head to read their spines. All the classics. Nothing new, nothing from the last 50 years at least. 

“Max? What year are we in?” She looked out her bedroom window and saw the train tracks she stared at everyday, only they weren’t covered over with grass anymore - and a small bustling station stood at the corner of the block. Things were different, but recognizable. She grabbed her purse, which was now real leather instead of the plasticy vinyl she had bought at T. J. Maxx a few months back. She was halfway out the door before she realized she was wearing pajamas. Hastily she retreated back into her room and flung open her closet. 

All of her jeans and sweaters had been replaced by dresses, which hung limply on their hangers. She pulled out a dress that was a suspiciously similar color to her favorite blue sweater. It was as if her sweater had simply decided it wanted to be an old-fashioned dress. She dressed, and grabbed her coat, hanging on its hook by the door, next to another, new hook, on which hung a hat. After a moment’s hesitation, she grabbed the hat too and shoved it down over her hair, shutting the door behind her with a click. 

She clicked down the tile hall in the heels she had found where she had kicked off her tennis shoes in the kitchen. She clicked all the way down the hall and down three flights of stairs. Heels were less comfortable, she decided. 

Standing on the corner in front of The Daily Grind, the coffee shop in her building, she saw her reflection behind painted letters, “David’s Cafe”. She pushed open the door, a bell sounding cheerfully. Inside was barely recognizable, but it seemed like a decent place, a few couples chatting quietly as they ate breakfast. She went up to the counter and sat at one of the stools. A waiter hovered on the other side of the counter. 

“Just a coffee please.” 

He nodded and she watched him fill a white porcelain mug with dark steaming coffee and set it down in front of her. 

The coffee was strong. Cassie debated whether she would sound crazy asking what year it was. By her relatively poor judge of what had and had not been invented she wondered if they were in the middle of World War I. She tapped her finger against the mug. Possibly she was dreaming. But it felt so complete and real. So surreal. She was definitely here, drinking coffee. 

The bell on the door chimed again, and a petite young woman with sharp, decided features marched up to the counter, tapping the bell that sat by the cash register with a gloved finger. Glancing to the left, she saw Cassie watching her. Cassie looked away and down into her coffee. 

The waiter came out from the kitchen doors, and saw her figure leaning there. “Morning Miss Sayre” 

“Good morning Albert, I just thought I’d pop in and make sure everything was running smoothly for tonight.” 

“Yes now Miss Sayre, everything’s been delivered and we’ll close early and reopen at 8.” 

“Yes. Well, see you then I suppose.” She shook her head, her curls tossing back and forth before bobbing back into place. “Oh by the way, invite anyone who looks young and like they’re looking for a good time. Isn’t a party unless you really crowd the place now is it?” 

“Will do.” The waiter nodded at her. 

She inclined her head gracefully and traced her path through the tables and back out the door with another chime. Cassie watched her toss her hair again, and replace her maroon hat lightly on her head before stepping into a waiting car. 

Sayre. Cassie thought that name sounded familiar. She stood up, and pushed her cup across the counter back towards the waiter.

“How much?” She asked. 

“Fifteen cents”

She was rich. She laid the coins on the counter. The waiter picked them up and looked at her. “You lookin’ for a good time tonight?” He asked. “You heard her. Party here at eight. Gonna be one hell of a New Year’s Eve party. Come if you want”

Cassie nodded, “Oh well, umm, yes. Right. Thank you.” She nodded again and turned. Was it still New Year’s Eve? Surely not in 2019. 

She walked out the door into the winter air. Crossing the street to a newsstand, she picked up a paper and handed the boy behind the stand a nickel. She was rich in whatever year this was. She scanned the top of the paper. December 31st. 1919. She stood for a second, feeling the cold wind blow her skirt against her bare calves. A century and a day. She had been close with her WWI guess. 

She folded the paper and tucked it in her pocket, started to walk away. 1919. The turn of the decade. Sayre. Cassie stopped again. Zelda. That was it. Zelda Sayre. Married to F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1920. There was no record of Zelda spending New Years in New York City in 1919, but there was no reason why not. Cassie spun around in disbelief. Several friends had invited her to their Gatsby themed New Year’s parties, ringing in the 20s, and here she was with an invitation to the Fitzgeralds - or soon to be Fitzgeralds - very own New Year’s party. 

Prohibition starts tomorrow, she remembered. For the moment, Cassie didn’t even care that she had no idea what was happening. She had a whole day to explore her city, and a party to go to that evening. She set off confidently in the direction of the library, heels clicking against the pavement. 

Hours later, Cassie fitted the key to her apartment in the lock, and burst in. She took off her heels and rubbed her feet. Max came around the corner of her bedroom door, rubbing around her legs, sniffing the end of her skirt. “Come on bud, I bet you’re hungry.” She took the container of cat food down off the icebox looking contraption that used to be her fridge, and put a scoop in Max’s bowl. Then she opened her ancient fridge. Empty. She slammed it shut. 

She trudged back into her bedroom and opened the closet, flipping halfheartedly through the dresses. At the back, she pulled out what used to be a black pantsuit. Now it was a black satin dress, with a wide neckline and low waist. A small cape fluttered around the shoulders, complete with gold sequins that shimmered like wings. Cassie pulled it carefully on, feeling foolishly like Cinderella, off to the ball. She had no idea what to do with her hair, so she twirled it up in the only fancy way she knew, and slipped her aching feet back into the heels. Off to the party. 

Curtains had been drawn over the windows of the coffee shop turned cafe, turned party venue. Letting herself in, she saw the cafe had decorated the tables pushed to the walls, streamers had hung, and an honest-to-goodness gramophone in the corner, music issuing from it. 

Hearing the door, a woman in one of the groups turned. Zelda wore a pale pink, dress with matching pink shoes, and her hair arranged prettily around her face. Gesturing to Cassie with a drink in her hand, she waved her over. 

“I recognize you from this morning! I’m glad you showed, we need lovely, interesting strangers to put some life in this party! I knew Albert would invite all the right people. I’m Zelda Sayres. Delighted” She laughed a tinkling laugh. “Anyways darling what’s your name?” 

“Cassie Woodhelm”

“Cassie! Everyone, Cassie, Cassie, some of my friends.” She waved at all the women at the circle. 

“Now Cassie, tell us about yourself!” 

 “I - I’m a writer. Uhh, on the side anyways” She wondered how common women writers were in the early 1900s. “I work in the library.” 

Zelda gasped excitedly, “My fiance is a writer! In fact,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “his first book is to be published soon. I’m sure it'll be a wild success. Oh come darling I’ll introduce you.” 

Zelda handed Cassie a glass of champagne, and led her to the counter. They approached a lanky man, lounging back on one of the stools at the counter, who looked up as Zelda approached, smiling and taking her outstretched hand. 

“Darling, this is my friend Cassie Woodhelm and she’s a writer too, I’ll just slip away now but I’m sure you two will find loads to talk about.” She smiled and turned away into the growing crowd of people. 

“Miss Woodhelm, pleased to make your acquaintance. Do have a seat.” He quickly got up off his stool and offered it to her. He was tall and although not deeply handsome, Cassie thought, striking, in a similar way to Zelda, the same clarity of expression and presence.

“Thank you.” Cassie smiled shyly. “Happy New Year.” 

“Yes, same to you. A new decade.” 

“Yes” Cassie said. She wanted to ask about his writing. 

 They lapsed into silence. 

“So, a writer? Don’t find many women brave enough to pursue that occupation, even in this age.” He looked at her, “What do you write?” 

“Oh, mostly historical, non-fiction, the boring things.” She gestured awkwardly, “Zelda told me you are about to have a book published.” She paused, “What do you write about?” 

 “I write about what I know. The here and now. The reality of it all underneath the glamour.” He took a sip of his drink. “Do you like what you write about?” 

The question caught Cassie by surprise. “I suppose so.” She struggled with her thoughts. 

He nodded. “I can’t even imagine writing about the past. Wouldn’t feel real.” 

Cassie murmured her agreement. 

He studied her. “You don’t speak of your writing with the passion a writer should.” 

His forwardness made Cassie stutter, this conversation was supposed to be about him. “Well, I - ” 

“‘Scuse me,” One of Fitzgerald’s friends interrupted, “Do you mind if I steal him? I’ve got a bet with Charlie over here and I need someone on my side.” He slapped Fitgerald on the back, “Loyal old chap here.” He laughed uproariously, and hung on Fitzgerald’s shoulder. 

“In a minute,” Fitzgerald laughed, shoving him off. “I’m terribly sorry Cassie I can’t account for my friends behavior once they’ve had enough to drink.” Cassie saw a twinkle of laughter in his eye. “‘Fraid there’s not much to be done but give in, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“Pleasure to meet you.” Cassie said. 

“Indeed.” He lifted his drink to her and swallowed the rest, setting the glass down on the counter. “Try writing something about something alive. You might like it.” He inclined his head with a smile, and then was gone.

Cassie sat, frozen to the stool. She saw Zelda across the room, dress sparkling as she spun around. She turned, setting down her untouched glass.The waiter leaned on the counter, and she asked, “What time is it?” 

“Just a few minutes til midnight.” 

“Thanks.” 

She walked through the party, the people beautiful and elegant, alive. She stood outside and watched her breath cloud against the night sky. She heard the party-goers begin to countdown. A great cheer. 1920. She breathed in the new year. Write about something alive.  There was nothing alive in her paper. In any of her papers.She began to walk. At the foot of the stairs she pulled off her heels and raced back to her apartment. 

She sat down at her desk. Write about what she knows. She could do that. She sized up the typewriter, and began to type, the words coming quickly, faster than she could type on the old keyboard. She grabbed a pencil and notepad. She had been wide awake a few moments ago, out in the cold, but sitting at her desk chair, she felt suddenly dizzy. She felt her head on the desk, her glasses hard against her face.  

She awoke to a cold, gray, daylight. Her neck had a kink and she lifted her head and hit it on her desk lamp, still on, casting it’s light onto the desk, her papers, and laptop. Max walked over the keyboard, meowing gently. She put Max on her lap and and tapped her computer. She rubbed her face and squinted at the date and time in the corner of the display. Jan 1, 2020. 

She looked at the mess on her desk. “Crap!” She hadn’t actually turned her paper in. Well, it was late now. She sighed. She began shuffling the papers into a stack. Underneath was her notepad and pencil, most of a page covered in her own scratchy handwriting. She frowned. What sort of weird glitch in the universe was this?

She stood up. She was wearing her black pantsuit. And then, she made the executive decision not to care. She only cared that she wanted to write. She hadn’t written any sort of story since probably high school. But she was going to write about something that felt real. She grabbed her notepad and pencil, stuffed her feet into her tennis shoes, power walking down the hall.

She pulled open the door of The Daily Grind, and ordered a coffee. The counter was along a different wall than it had been in 1919. She usually took her coffee to go, but she looked around the room and headed for a chair. If the counter was still here it would be in the way of the chair. She sat right where she had last night, watching the early morning crowd of the coffee shop, pulled out her notepad, and started writing.