The Sun, the Moon, and Maybe the Trains

by Rodney Jones

  I should’ve turned for home. That would’ve made perfect sense. I didn’t, though. I went on and soon came to a crossroads where I found a second sign stuck in the ground. It read “STOP” in big white letters on a bright red octagon. Just “stop.” Stop what? Stop, as in, don’t go any further? I stared up the road ahead of me, looked off to the right and left. I couldn’t see any reason a person should stop.

  “Dead End” and then “Stop.” Were they signs from God? I’d heard of such things, but assumed He’d not be quite so literal.

  I stepped out into the intersection onto a smooth, rock-hard surface—black, with tiny stones evenly embedded throughout. I squatted and pressed my hands to it and then looked down the road going south: one continuous sheet of black. I turned the other way. Another wheeled machine! I darted to the side of the road and crouched in the ditch with my eyes fixed on that approaching huge, shiny black beetle.

  Swish! The weeds and grasses along the road’s edge bent as it passed.

  No, it wasn’t like a machine, not really—not like anything I knew of. Inside were a young man and a dog. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it’d be like being in that fellow’s shoes. I mean, wouldn’t you be scared? He didn’t appear all that concerned, though, nor did the dog, which turned its head and stared at me as it flew by, something more like curiosity than fear in its eyes.

  Come the early part of evening, I arrived in a village that I could only assume was Wallingford, as it was situated where Wallingford had always been. But the streets were paved like the road I’d just come in on, as were the sidewalks. Sidewalks? In Wallingford? That little one-horse town?

  Through a gap between two large brick buildings, I saw what I believed was Rutland Road. One machine after another swished by from either direction, fast as all get-up. Some were huge, big as a train engine, but a lot were more the size of the machines I’d seen earlier. Then one hardly bigger than my aunt’s cooking stove flew by. I stood in the middle of the road, a noisy buzz in my head. A rooster could’ve strutted up to me and introduced itself, and I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  Like a coot with his trousers on backward, I stood there, shaking my head in an attempt to dislodge the hallucinations. I squeezed my eyes shut and said, “It ain’t real. It ain’t real.”

  Then, as sudden as a crack of lightning, a raven-like voice ripped the air. “Son!”

  I swung around.

  The crackling, saw-tooth voice came from one of them machines. “Step to the side of the road!”

  I ran as hard as I could, leapt across the sidewalk through some bushes, and kept on between two houses. I heard shouting from behind and then a heavy thud, followed by another. I didn’t slow or look back. I ran into the woods behind the houses and kept going. Someone was shouting for me to stop, but I didn’t hesitate—I pushed myself to run harder. More shouting. I started up a hillside, leaping over boulders and fallen trees.

  It wasn’t long before I couldn’t hear them anymore. I ducked behind a beech hardly big enough to hide me and listened. My heart was pounding too hard for me to hear anything else. I took a quick peek, but didn’t see any movement. Huffing—sweat dripping from my bangs, down my sides, and running down my chest—I waited there for my blood to settle, then turned, slid down to the ground, my back to the trunk, and just sat there.

  I watched as the shadow of the mountain to the west crept up the mountainside east of me. I figured I had another hour before it’d be too dark to continue. I got to my feet and kicked around a bit, looking for a decent spot to bed down, but the ground was too rocky, too uneven.

  It was candlelight dark when I stumbled into some bushes at the edge of someone’s yard. I sniffed the air, then knelt and sniffed the ground. The thick bed of wood chips beneath the bushes smelled oddly like chocolate cake. It seemed hidden well enough from the house, so I crawled in, curled up on my side, and let my exhaustion have what was left of me.

  chapter four

  I WOULD’VE BEEN THRILLED TO HAVE awakened in my bed to the smell of coffee, sausage, and baking biscuits with all that craziness with the trees and machines being nothing but a dream that I could then share with my aunt and laugh about. I would’ve been most grateful for that. But instead, I awoke under a bush to a deep rumble.

  I sprang to a crouch and, cocked for a run, peered through the bushes. The rumbling stopped. I searched to the left of the nearby house, but found nothing that might account for the noise. I had a strong feeling that someone, or something, was just around the front corner. A large wheeled machine appeared. A patch of morning sun glinted off its radish-red side. I could see only a small portion before it disappeared from view with a low hum and the hiss of a feral cat. Then the rumbling returned, only to stop a few moments later, same as before.

  I watched and waited, taking measured breaths, determined to keep my head on square. Nothing more happened. So I lay back down and listened for a while longer to the other, subtler sounds. Throughout the night, my dreams had been full of noises, some real and some, I’m sure, just dreamed or imagined. Either way, they left me feeling dragged out and thin. Without the noises, I could have maybe convinced myself that everything had returned to normal, but daylight made that impossible.

  Something clearly was wrong. Everywhere I looked, I found evidence of that wrongness. In addition to that was the nagging awareness that I’d lost a wagon and the two valuable horses pulling it. I had a responsibility to see they were returned safely to my uncle. What could I do but hold to the slim hope that they had pulled the wagon on into Rutland?

  I crawled from the bushes and took stock of the situation. For starters, my stomach was complaining, and my throat was parched. I hadn’t had any water since I’d left the wagon. I glanced around the backyard, thinking there’d be a well or a garden nearby, but saw nothing of the sort. Extending from the back of the house was a large platform with a railing along its perimeter. On that sat a table surrounded by a spindly-looking set of chairs.

  Again, my stomach growled. I shoved a hand into the pocket of my trousers. There at the bottom were the coins I’d brought with me. For a man who didn’t have all that much, my uncle was more than your usual generous. He’d always try to pay me something for the work I did. Sometimes it’d be a quarter dollar, and sometimes a half, but he’d give me something every week. I had close to seventeen dollars in silver in a box beneath my bed. Whenever I’d make a trip into Rutland, I’d bring a few coins with me to have in case I saw something I couldn’t live without.

  I pulled my hand from my pocket—two quarters and a half, a lot of money—then glanced toward the house. I’d never begged for food before. It wasn’t as if I were dying or anything, but I wasn’t looking forward to several hours of more hiking on an empty belly.

  I kept to the woods, still not convinced I was doing the right thing, and made my way around to the front of the house. I sneaked a cautious peek from behind a large maple near the edge of the yard. Some folks in those parts just weren’t all that hospitable. Some, in fact, could be quite the contrary. I glanced toward the front door as though there’d be a sign hanging there saying “Strangers welcome” or “Strangers shot at.” I reached into my pocket again, jingled the coins, then stepped out from behind the tree.

  I was halfway across the yard when the front door opened. I froze.

  A gal with long red hair spilling over a two-gallon green sack strapped to her shoulders was fiddling with the door. She wore trousers like gals would sometimes wear when doing chores. That gal’s britches, however, looked as though they’d not yet seen any work.

  I was just about to say something when she suddenly turned and let out a sharp gasp, like a hiccup. A tiny metal object fell from her hand. It tinkled as it bounced off the stoop into some flowers along the side. She quickly twisted around toward the door.

  “Miss?”

  She turned back, urgently searching the steps.

  “Miss?”

  She glanced left and right of her feet, then
looked out toward me.

  “I’m real sorry to startle you like I did. I was just—”

  “What do you want?” she snapped while glancing first toward me and then down, quickly scanning the walkway before the steps. I believe her sign, if she’d had one, would’ve said “Strangers shot at.”

  “Well, this might seem a bit queer and all, but I lost my wagon up the way.” I nodded toward the east. “Yesterday, it was.”

  “Yeah. So what are you doing here?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I mean, it’s just where I happened to end up is all. See, I was on my way to Rutland with a load of meal. And, well, strange as it sounds, I lost my—”

  She glanced over the edge of the step toward the ground.

  “I saw where it was that thing you dropped went, Miss. I could show you, if you’d like.”

  “Where? And don’t show me. Just stay where you are. I’ll get it. Just tell me.”

  “I ain’t gonna bite ya. I was just fixin’ to ask if I might purchase something to eat from you folks. I ain’t had anything in… well, I reckon it ain’t been all that long, but I was getting kinda hungry, and I have a good hike ahead of me.”

  “The A-T?”

  “Pardon me?”

  She eyed me for a moment. “The Appalachian Trail.”

  “The what trail?”

  She squinted. “You homeless?”

  Again, I said, “Pardon me, miss?”

  “Are… you… homeless?”

  “Homeless?” I puzzled for a moment. “I’m sorry, miss. I ain’t certain what it is you mean.”

  She let out an exasperated huff. “Do you not have a home? A place to live?”

  I smiled. “Don’t believe I’ve ever met anyone who didn’t have a home somewhere. I live up over the mountain there.” I threw my thumb over my shoulder. “Greendale.”

  “Greendale? Where’s that?”

  “Greendale?”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “That’s where I live. My uncle owns the mill.” I cocked my head to one side and squinted at her. “I find it hard to imagine you living so near and not hearing of Greendale.”

  “Well, I haven’t. It’s one of those tiny little towns?”

  “It ain’t a Rutland, for sure. Just a half dozen houses, some barns, and the mill is about it. But anyhow, I would’ve figured folks in these parts all knew of it.”

  Her shoulders dropped a little, and her eyes seemed to soften a bit. I couldn’t help but notice, too, that she was more than your average pretty. Her skin being fair—lightly freckled—and her lips… I’d seen lips like hers in a painting somewhere. I reckoned there was a reason that painting had stuck with me. Her nose, though, was just a nose. Leastwise, it didn’t draw attention away from her eyes. It’d take a lot of nose to draw your attention from those. There was something unusual about her eyes, the way they hooked down at the inside corner, and I couldn’t be sure, being I was a ways off yet, but I thought maybe they were green. No, not green, but a kind of hazelly green—hazel with maybe just a hint of green. They were hazel. Whatever their color, they had my attention.

  “That thing you dropped… it’s right there.” I pointed. “To your right… the flowers… about a foot from that second step.” I stayed put.

  She stepped down to the flowers, squatted, spread the leaves apart, felt around some, then held up a tiny, silver object clasped between her thumb and index finger. “I think I missed my bus.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It doesn’t matter. My mom’s car is in the shop. They had to special-order some part, and so she’s been taking my car to work. I wanted to go into Rutland, for no reason really, just to hang out and, well, anyway, I missed the bus. No biggy.”

  I didn’t get any part of what she’d said and didn’t know where to start with a question, so I said, “You found that thing you dropped.”

  She sighed and took a seat on the steps. “Yeah.” She held the thing out in front of her. “The front door.” Her eyes drifted down to my legs. “Where’d you get your clothes? Did someone make them?”

  Again, I puzzled. First, I wondered what, if anything, that thing she was holding had to do with the front door. “I’d always assumed all clothes were made by someone. I mean, they didn’t grow somewhere. Did yours?”

  She smiled. “I don’t know. I always thought they were just growing on the racks in the mall. What you’re wearing there, I’m not so sure about.”

  “If you were to ask me, I’d say folks around here all of a sudden seem to be dressing kind of queer.”

  “Queer?” Her smile broadened. “You mean gay?”

  “Huh? No, I mean queer. Like them trousers, being a bit… snug, and that’s fine, I suppose, doesn’t matter to me. Wouldn’t be none of my business anyways, but I was… well… what?”

  “What? My trousers? Are snug?” She glanced down at her britches.

  My cheeks went feverish. “Well, lately, everyone I’ve met seems to be wearing something… unusual.”

  “Oh, and that’s not?” She pointed at me. Her eyes lifted to mine, then she grabbed her pointing hand and pulled it to her chest. “I’m sorry. That was…” Her eyes flicked off somewhere and then back. She gave me a sheepish grin.

  I gave her a smile. “Doesn’t bother me any.”

  She then studied me for a moment. “You said you were hungry?”

  I nodded.

  “Would you like a sandwich?”

  “That’d be real nice, thank you.”

  “You don’t have to stand out there if you don’t want to. You can sit here. I’ll go make a sandwich. Do you eat meat?”

  As though she wasn’t peculiar enough already, she had to ask if I ate meat? Even so, I found I was beginning to relax a bit. She seemed more and more just plain friendly. Do I eat meat? “I’d eat the poor critter alive about now if you were to put one in front of me.”

  “Oh, really.” She giggled, then turned to the door and poked the little silver thing—which I then realized was a key—into a little round lock. I’d never known anyone who’d lock up their house, but I wasn’t about to say anything.

  I walked up to the foot of the steps. “Miss…”

  She turned as she was about to enter her house.

  “My name’s John Bartley, and it’s a real pleasure meeting you.”

  She grinned, then put a hand over her mouth and gave herself a little slap. “John Bartley, it’s been entirely my pleasure. And you can call me Tess.” She looked as though she was about to bust out a laugh. “Miss Tess.”

  “Miss Tess.”

  “I’m kidding. Tess is fine. I’d prefer that, actually. No more ‘miss,’ please.”

  “All right, then.”

  “Would you like a Coke while you’re waiting?”

  “A coat?”

  “Where was it you said you were from?”

  “Greendale.”

  “A Coke. I’ll get you one. Maybe it’ll come back to you. Make it real. The preferred drink of polar bears.” She disappeared into the house.

  She was a peculiar gal if ever there was one. I climbed the three steps going up to the little porch, all made of some type of cement, but where it came from, I couldn’t imagine. I studied the lamp fixed to the wall to the right of the door. The glass appeared as though the lamp had never been used, or perhaps it’d just recently been cleaned and polished. Was it upside down? Maybe it was gas. But then where would that come from? The bottom was open. I peered up inside; a glassy white pear-shape was fixed at the heart of it. Was it something other than a lamp?

  “Excuse me.”

  I stepped back to allow Tess through the door. She handed me a drinking glass filled with a coffee-colored liquid. The glass was cold, very cold, with bubbles rising like in soda water and little blocks of ice floating on its surface.

  I held up the glass and stared into it. “Ice. There’s ice in there.”

  Tess watched me from the door. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t ask if you wan
ted ice or not. I can get you another.”

  “Where’d it come from?”

  “Where’d what come from?”

  “The ice. Where’d you get it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, I think it does, this being July and all.”

  “Yeah?”

  I shook my head. “Ice in July?”

  She stared at me for a long moment. “Right.” She nodded.

  “What’s going on around here?”

  “Yeah, it’s weird, isn’t it? Ice in July, fire in December. You just can’t trust your eyes anymore.” She made a face, then turned away. “I’ll go make your sandwich.”

  I stood there baffled as she disappeared into the house—yes, very queer, that gal—then took a seat on the top step, brought the cold glass up to my lips, and took a small sip. I was expecting bitter, like coffee, but the liquid made me think of horehound—even sweeter, though. I took another sip—prickly and cold, but in a pleasant way.

  I was still sipping on that Coke when Tess returned with a sandwich—ham and cheese with lettuce between two perfect slices of brown bread. I thanked her and told her I was planning on paying her for it.

  “Oh?”

  I nodded. “I have money.”

  “Oh, okay. That’ll be three fifty-nine, then.”

  I pondered for a moment, uncertain as to what she meant.

  She laughed. “Don’t be silly. I don’t need anything. Eat.”

  I did, making short work of it. She went and fixed another, and I ate that one, as well. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a quarter dollar. “I was hoping you might accept this and my gratitude.”

  She studied the coin for a moment. “What is this?”

  “Well, I’ll allow it ain’t quite three fifty-nine, but I don’t feel it’s unfair.”

  “Is this real?” She peered hard at it. “1865. This is real? This is silver, isn’t it?”

  I thought maybe she was having fun with me. I glanced into her eyes, looking for a clue, and got that she wasn’t. “You ain’t seen a quarter dollar before?”