Fast Backward

by David Patneaude

  “Doesn’t sound like he’s going to go to bat for her.”

  “And you weren’t able to talk to Pete.”

  “I left him a note,” I say. “I asked him to call.”

  “He will. If he’s not too busy being a soldier.”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

  “We’ve had this discussion before, Bobby.”

  “Today you started it.”

  “Yes. And I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry I chose to conscientiously object to the war, just as Pete isn’t sorry he chose to serve.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a choice,” I say. “He would’ve been drafted.”

  “He had a choice. Before he made it, I let him know his options.”

  “He’s keeping us safe.”

  “And I’m not,” he says. “I’m aware of that.”

  We have had this discussion before. It always ends the same—stalemate. “Do you believe Cocoa’s story?”

  “Time travel? Hitler gets off the ropes and conquers America? A helluva tale, Bobby, but I wouldn’t bet a nickel on it being true.”

  “A penny?”

  “If the penny were yours.”

  “Maybe Uncle Pete will believe it,” I say.

  “He’s believed other things.”

  “You don’t like him.”

  “I like him fine,” Dad says. “But the war drove a wedge between us, and we can’t seem to dislodge it.”

  “I hope he calls.”

  “Me, too, Bobby. For Cocoa’s sake. But don’t bring up anything outlandish over the phone. The only way Pete won’t shut down at the first mention of time travel is if he hears about it from Cocoa, face-to-face. I wasn’t lying that the doctor was impressed with her. We’re all impressed. Maybe Pete will be, too.”

  I glance at the paper in his typewriter. “You could write a story about her. Submit it to the Chieftain, or even the Journal.”

  He laughs. “I’d never get another story published. Besides, I don’t write fiction.”

  “You don’t have to mention the time . . . uh . . . slippage part. Say she appeared the morning the bomb exploded. Write about her appearance, her accent, her lack of family. Isn’t this what they call human interest?”

  “Bomb?” Dad says. “Didn’t you just hear the newsman? You believe her bomb story?”

  “Maybe Uncle Pete can answer that question.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It wasn’t munitions,” I say. “People at the base camp don’t think it was.” I don’t tell him the people are a couple of Army cooks.

  “God save us, if someone’s developed a super bomb.” He goes back to his writing. I get up to let Lolly in, wondering what Dad has to lose by writing about Cocoa. Because of him, I’ve become the least popular kid at school—except for human plague Bo Crandall. He’s fond of dropping pubic hairs on his classmates’ desks and will start his junior year as an eighteen-year-old, if he starts at all.

  People can’t stand disgusting pricks like Bo Crandall, but the son of a conchie is a close second on almost everyone’s shit list. So why does the conchie himself think he has a future in newspaper writing? Why does he think a story on Cocoa would jeopardize his fictitious future?

  Mom has a pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove. I give it a stir, cut a slice of the bread she baked earlier, and wander to the living room, where Dad’s old copy of The Time Machine resides on a low bookshelf. I take it to my room, away from the click-clack of Dad’s typewriter keys knocking out a story that nobody wants to publish.

  I stretch out on my bed and begin reading. Maybe the second time around, old man Wells’ thought-provoking but bizarre idea about traveling through time will be just as thought-provoking but not so bizarre.

  I read and doze. When I finally get up, the sun is low, the house is quiet. Through the kitchen window I see Dad outside, heading for the barn. I go to Cocoa’s room; it feels like her room, even though she’s been with us barely a day. I tap on her door. No answer. I crack it open. She’s on top of the covers, eyes closed. I study her chest for a sign that she’s breathing, and finally it comes—a slight rise and fall. Feeling like a peeping Tom, I shut the door and leave.

  On a cutting board by the kitchen sink Dad has left me a pile of rhubarb and a note. Bobby: One-inch chunks. I’ll start the pie when I’m done milking the Andrews sisters. Thanks!

  My mouth waters. But as I rinse and cut I wonder if Cocoa will like rhubarb pie. Do they even have rhubarb in wherever (or whenever) she’s from?

  I stare at the phone, willing it to ring. It doesn’t, and still there’s no sound from Cocoa’s room. Finished with the rhubarb, I sit to listen to the radio. Maybe the next newsman will dig deeper into the Army’s cover-up story.

  But when the news comes on, it’s the same tall tale.

  Cocoa finds me in the living room. I tell her the blast is being downplayed. I tell her I’ve heard nothing from Uncle Pete, and that the doctor is taking a wait-and-see approach to her story.

  She’s agitated. “Everyone sucks,” she says.

  And she’s right.

  We spend the rest of the evening waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for something more truthful from the radio. We hear Dad put the finishing touches on the rhubarb pie and close the oven and tap away on his typewriter. When the smells of baking rhubarb and sugar and crust reach us, Cocoa finally smiles.

  We have supper—chicken soup and bread and butter and sliced tomatoes from the garden and warm pie—and Cocoa loves everything. But the news is still a lie. And Cocoa has to go see Dr. Kersey in the morning for prodding and needling and questioning. And when we finally head off to bed, Uncle Pete still hasn’t called.

  NINE

  Tuesday, July 17

  It’s still dark, and Leo beat me to the shack, as usual. He left the faint stink of exhaust in the air and my stack of newspapers on the bench. I roll only half, remembering the crowd of people leaving the base camp yesterday.

  I wonder how many won’t return, which gets me to wondering again about Cocoa’s bomb story. If the explosion was a test, at least some of the engineers and the people who support them would have no reason to stick around.

  Maybe it’s the early hour and lack of sleep, but as I load the papers and shoulder my bag and take off for the camp, one irrational question continues to pester me. If Cocoa’s right about the bomb, could the other stuff also be true?

  I should be warm from the exertion of the bike ride from home and hustling through the papers and building up speed again, but I feel a chill.

  I’m halfway through my route when I arrive at Uncle Pete’s barracks. A weak glow leaks through the windows. Trying to be quiet, I slip inside with the usual four copies of the Journal allocated to this building. I set them on a rickety card table and look around. Surrounded by sleeping soldiers, Uncle Pete’s sitting on his bunk, taking off his boots. He nods in my direction and pads over, almost disguising his limp, and crushes me with a hug.

  “What’s up, Bobby?” he murmurs as he steps back. “Sorry I didn’t call. I just found your note.” He’s in dusty fatigues, no hat. He’s thirty-two, but he almost looks too young to be a soldier. Dark memories smolder beneath his pupils.

  The big room buzzes with snoring. “I need to talk to you, Uncle Pete. It’s important.”

  His eyebrows rise. “Short important or long important?”

  “Long, I guess.”

  “Can it wait until I grab some sleep, pal? Been playing cowboy all night.”

  I picture him seated on a horse in the moonlight, his leg at the mercy of the big animal’s broad-bodied anatomy and jostling. “Can you come to the house?”

  “Why the house?”

  “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  “Someone? You got a girlfriend, Bobby? You want your sophisticated uncle’s approval?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I think I can get a vehicle from the motor pool. Things have simmered down since yesterday.”
<
br />   “A lot of people left yesterday?”

  “The goings outnumbered the comings.”

  “The radio said the explosion was accidental. So, why’d all those guys leave?”

  Uncle Pete hesitates long enough to let me know something is up, something was up, which makes me think of Cocoa. Everything makes me think of Cocoa. “Loose lips,” he whispers finally.

  “Sink ships,” I say.

  “Exactly.”

  “Can you make it late this afternoon or this evening? She . . . my friend . . . has an appointment this morning.”

  “I don’t have patrol duty until 1900 hours. I’ll try to get to your place before your mom takes off for work so I can say hello to her.”

  “She’d love that.”

  “I might even say hello to your old man.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah. Now on your way, kid. I need sleep, and you’ve got more newspapers in that bag.” He yawns. Maybe he’d be more excited if he had a preview of the story. But that won’t happen. Only Cocoa has a chance of making her yarn sound like the truth.

  I deliver the rest of the papers. Talking to Uncle Pete has given me energy. It’s good to have him close to home. For years, he was half a world away, and then in a Washington, DC, hospital, and then three hours up the road in Los Alamos, the top-secret facility in the mountains above Santa Fe. His transfer brought him here. I hope he’ll stay. Someone has to guard this place after the geniuses and brass and worker bees leave.

  Dad is the only one out of bed when I get home. He’s just returned to the kitchen from milking the Andrews sisters and repairing a hole in the hen house floor. The robber-critter that made it got scared off before getting in, so Dad was able to collect the nine eggs now sitting in a bowl on the counter.

  “Did Lolly get one?” I ask. He’s stretched out under the table, but when he hears his name he rolls on his back, looking for a scratching. I kneel and oblige.

  “Yeah, but I had to think about it. He didn’t even whimper last night when the weasel or whatever it was came calling.”

  “I saw Uncle Pete. He said he’d come over this afternoon.”

  “Did you tell him I’ll be here?”

  “He likes you.”

  Dad presses the palms of his big hands against my cheeks and studies my face.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking your nose for sudden growth, Pinocchio.”

  When he releases me, I get up and sit at the table. I resist touching my nose. “The truth is, he said he might say hello to you.”

  “That sounds more like it.”

  “Don’t argue with him, okay? I like having him around here.”

  TEN

  There’s still no sign of Cocoa when Mom shuffles into the kitchen and goes straight to the coffee pot. Coffee is rationed, but we’ve done a good job of hoarding it. She’s wearing her usual morning attire—nightgown, housecoat, slippers. Her hair has gone wild during the night.

  “Tired, Mom?”

  She takes a serious drink of black coffee before responding. “Someone was snoring most of the night. Then someone got up at four thirty and rattled around the bedroom while someone else was trying to sleep.”

  Dad smiles sheepishly and gets back to his newspaper, where an article reports on an accidental ammunition explosion. The article says windows fractured hundreds of miles away.

  An explosion of ammunition breaks windows hundreds of miles away? I picture other noses growing—the reporter’s, the Army spokesman who fed him the lie.

  Mom brings a bowl to the table. While she fills it with Rice Krispies and milk, she begins the Reader’s Digest version of last night’s trip to town.

  “I talked to the sheriff. I told him a little about Cocoa. He wasn’t aware of a missing person report on anyone, but he’ll check outside the county. He said he didn’t see any harm in her staying with us until someone can figure out where she belongs, or until we get tired of her. I told him we won’t get tired of her.”

  At Mom’s words, I get a warm feeling in my chest. “Why would we?”

  “Yes,” Dad says. “Why would we? We might have to tell the hens to increase their egg production, though. For such a skinny thing, the girl can eat.”

  By nine thirty we’re all in the car on our way to Socorro. Cocoa and I are at opposite ends of the back seat. I should’ve brought Lolly and stationed him at a window, compressing our usable space, but Dad wanted him home protecting the chickens. Like that would happen.

  Doctor Kersey’s office is stocked with furniture and paintings and magazines and a curvy blond nurse named Marla, who’s at the reception room desk when we walk in. Behind the door to the inner office, I know, is modern X-ray and other equipment. Once, when Marla and I were waiting in the examination room for the doctor to come in and check out my raw throat, she explained to me what all the instruments were called. The names—stethoscope, otoscope, ophthalmoscope—were like fishhooks. They stuck in my brain, refusing to be dislodged.

  Marla looks surprised at the size of Cocoa’s fan club, but she smiles and buzzes the doctor and, in a moment, he emerges from behind the door and asks Cocoa and his nurse to step inside. He tells us we’re welcome to take care of errands, because this is going to take a while. We find seats and magazines and settle in. Before the door closes, Cocoa gives me a look, but it’s as foreign to me as whatever language she grew up speaking.

  Cocoa didn’t convince the doctor yesterday. Can she do it today? I wonder. What’s Uncle Pete going to make of her story? What will she have to do make believers of the people who matter?

  I’ve made my way through a whole Life magazine before Cocoa and the doctor reappear. Her expression is still incomprehensible, but he looks calm, as if he has things figured out. Uncle Pete told me once that this expression is something doctors learn in medical school. He saw it on a lot of them after he was wounded. It’s part of what they call reassurance, and they use it when they’re stumped, or a patient is unfixable—or dying.

  “She’s all set for today,” Doctor Kersey tells my parents in a reassuring voice. “But can I talk to you briefly in the consultation room? Cocoa and Bobby can wait here.”

  “Actually,” Mom says, rising from her chair, “I’m going to take Cocoa shopping for some real clothes. We’ll be at Penney’s. So, Chuck, when you and Bobby are done consulting with Doctor Kersey, can you meet us at the store? Young ladies’ department.”

  Chuck and me, consulting with the doctor? Mom just made me feel about ten feet tall.

  “Is that arrangement okay with you, dear?” Mom asks Cocoa.

  “I keep no secrets,” she says. “And Chuck, Robert, and me—we are tight.”

  Tight?

  Doctor Kersey looks a little startled, but quickly recovers his composure. Dad and I say goodbye to the shoppers and follow the doctor into his consultation room, which at my last visit doubled as an examination room. For a moment, I wonder if sometimes, when the handsome doctor and his gorgeous nurse are alone in the office, it triples as something else.

  “Anything new?” Dad says when we’re seated on stools and the doctor is perched on the edge of his examination table. He looks comfortable there. I picture him with company.

  “Nothing dramatic,” the doctor says. “We have to wait for the chest X-rays to be developed and the blood and urine to be processed, but until then we’re pretty much where we were yesterday. A young woman with some significant and apparently chronic deficits of her body’s systems, cause or causes unknown.”

  “You can treat her, though?” I say. “Or she might improve on her own?”

  “She’s no longer being exposed to the source of her problems,” Dad says. “The mine or whatever it was. Bobby could be right?”

  “That’s my hope,” the doctor says, “because I don’t have a knockout treatment plan. I can only prescribe rest, fresh air, good food, and moderate exercise. That doesn’t mean I’m satisfied. Once the results come back, I’ll pick the brains o
f doctors I trust and come up with a strategy.”

  “She has an appetite,” I say.

  “A positive sign.”

  “And an imagination,” Dad says.

  “I’m afraid it goes beyond that, Chuck.” The doctor’s expression turns serious. “She stands by her story of time travel and a ruined world with no resources, and what she calls thermonuclear bombs and perpetual wars and Hitler winning this one to start the whole mess. She thinks she can do something to alter what she perceives as this history.”

  “You know about the explosion yesterday?” I say.

  “An atomic bomb, she claims,” the doctor says.

  “I believe her,” I say. “I saw it. Felt it. It was no accident. The engineers who were there, working around the clock for the last six months—they’re leaving. They’ve finished their jobs.”

  “Maybe she’s right about the bomb,” Dad says.

  “Maybe,” Doctor Kersey says. “But the rest of it? Ludicrous. If I were to talk to government authorities about her claims, which she’s hoping I’ll do, I’d be ridiculed. She’d be institutionalized. And you, Bobby, if you publicly step beyond supporting the bomb theory, would be the butt of everyone’s jokes.”

  I consider telling him I’m already the butt of everyone’s jokes. “Where’d she come from, then?” I say instead. “Why is she sick, and telling us these things? Why the German accent?”

  “Maybe she was born in Germany,” he says, “or grew up in a German community in the US. Maybe she’s faking it.”

  I’m not swayed. The accent isn’t fake. There are no German communities around here. And if she arrived from Germany or some other European country, why wouldn’t she say that?

  “She seems sincere,” Dad says. “Not irrational.”

  “I agree,” Doctor Kersey says. “She’s convincing. But she’s also been through a major hardship of some kind, which could make her sincerely irrational. Or irrationally sincere.”

  At the risk of offending Dad, I decide to give the doctor something more to ponder. “Did she tell you she was naked when I found her?”

  The doc blinks away a startled look. Dad doesn’t react. Mom must’ve told him.