Indy's residence, Fairfield, New York 1938
[January 21st, 1938 @ 10:16 am EST]
With the taste of (her) blueberry muffins and coffee still thick in his mouth, Indy strides into his own living room for the second time this week. He strolls around, peremptorily checking things out and re-familiarizing himself with his home... from home. Miss Jennings, the housekeeper, seems to have been earning her keepeverything is immaculately clean and orderly, to the point where the place doesn't look or feel very lived in. Which makes sense, given that it hasn't actually been lived in for a month in this timeline. It feels even odder for Indy. It's been well over a year since he was last here.
A sharp winter morning greets him outside. There's a clear sky overhead and a thin sheen of frost still clinging to everything. He empties the jam-packed mailbox and grabs the rolled-up New York Times laying in the driveway. A quick glance reveals what he's looking for. A night has passed.
Once back inside, he adjusts his watch to the correct time, starts a pot of coffee and goes through the pile of envelopes and packets. Bills, college correspondence, long overdue transcripts, alumni news and the usual set of letters from admiring female students. There's nothing (from Marion) that requires immediate attention. So, armed with a mug of fresh Columbian, he settles into the armchair next to the telephone and picks up the handset, preparing to rotate the dial. Damn it all if he can't remember the number for the museum though. It's been that long. And damn it all if his address book isn't at his apartment in Manhattan. He calls the operator instead.
"New York City. The National Museum."
"Yep, Central Park West."
"Thanks."
The anonymous lady connects the call, and four rings later the front desk clerk picks up.
"Harry?"
"Hi, yeah, it's Doctor Jones. Is Marcus around?"
"Thanks."
With the taste of (her) blueberry muffins and coffee still thick in his mouth, Indy strides into his own living room for the second time this week. He strolls around, peremptorily checking things out and re-familiarizing himself with his home... from home. Miss Jennings, the housekeeper, seems to have been earning her keepeverything is immaculately clean and orderly, to the point where the place doesn't look or feel very lived in. Which makes sense, given that it hasn't actually been lived in for a month in this timeline. It feels even odder for Indy. It's been well over a year since he was last here.
A sharp winter morning greets him outside. There's a clear sky overhead and a thin sheen of frost still clinging to everything. He empties the jam-packed mailbox and grabs the rolled-up New York Times laying in the driveway. A quick glance reveals what he's looking for. A night has passed.
Once back inside, he adjusts his watch to the correct time, starts a pot of coffee and goes through the pile of envelopes and packets. Bills, college correspondence, long overdue transcripts, alumni news and the usual set of letters from admiring female students. There's nothing (from Marion) that requires immediate attention. So, armed with a mug of fresh Columbian, he settles into the armchair next to the telephone and picks up the handset, preparing to rotate the dial. Damn it all if he can't remember the number for the museum though. It's been that long. And damn it all if his address book isn't at his apartment in Manhattan. He calls the operator instead.
"New York City. The National Museum."
"Yep, Central Park West."
"Thanks."
The anonymous lady connects the call, and four rings later the front desk clerk picks up.
"Harry?"
"Hi, yeah, it's Doctor Jones. Is Marcus around?"
"Thanks."