“Then permit me to offer you one piece of advice. Talk to him. Try to see the world through his eyes. Communicating is everything. That’s a lesson I learned a little too late. If you really love your son, you’ll give him that much consideration.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Earl. “Clifford’s a legal adult now, and I can’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to. But I still have some control over his life, and I’m going to use it. I’m disconnecting this video equipment. You won’t be seeing Clifford again. I’ll give you five minutes to say goodbye.”
I was devastated, but what could I do? Reach through the screen and stop him from pulling the plug? Earl’s mind was made up and that was that. But his actions were not going to stop me from accomplishing my mission.
As Earl and Sarah walked out of frame, Clifford entered and slumped down in the chair.
“What was all that about?” he asked, adjusting his shades.
“Never mind,” I said. “We don’t have much time. Can your mom and dad hear us?”
“They’ve left the room. What is it?”
“What I am about to say is extremely important. I need to ask a favor of you. It involves President Kennedy.”
“A fine man. What’s your favor?”
“He’s going to be assassinated tomorrow.”
Clifford quickly sat up and removed his shades. “That’s crazy. He’s one of the most beloved presidents we’ve ever had. Are you sure about this?”
“I know the future, remember? How would you like to save his life?”
Clifford fell back into his chair. “You think I can? It sounds kinda dangerous.”
“Not if you do as I say.”
I explained the facts to Clifford: the presidential motorcade in Dallas, the manner in which it will be done, the who, when, and how.
“What do I have to do?” asked Clifford.
“Listen close. The assassin’s name is Lee Harvey Oswald. He looks like this.” I held up a picture of his police mugshot. “Tomorrow morning he will be driven to work carrying a long, paper package. He’ll tell everybody there are curtain rods inside, but it’s really a rifle. He’ll be dropped off in front of the building at 7:23. Just look for a black, 1954 Chevrolet Bel Air. All you have to do is grab that package away from him before he enters the building. He won’t suspect a thing.”
“Whoa, man. This is heavy.”
I could see Clifford starting to sweat, even in black and white.
“Think about this: what you do could very well change the course of the Vietnam War. You might not have to go, if this works.”
I looked down and refreshed the screen on my tablet. The headlines hadn’t changed.
“I don’t know, Amy,” said Clifford. “This is kind of wiggin’ me out. I’m all for changing the world, and all, but this . . .”
“Well, here’s your big chance. You’re the only one who knows what’s going to happen. You have to do this.”
“But what will this do to your time? Have you thought about that? Everything will change for you, too.”
“I know that. But isn’t saving a life—especially of someone this important—worth it?”
Suddenly, I heard a loud banging on the window behind me.
“Stop, Amy!” screamed a voice.
It was Hubert.
“What’s going on there?” said Clifford. “Who’s that yelling?”
I hit the refresh button again with my shaking finger. The headlines were still the same.
No . . . wait!
They weren’t the same!
While the bold headlines hadn’t changed, I had neglected to notice the subheadings:
“Brave Teen Dies in Bold Attempt to Save Kennedy.”
Clifford had indeed confronted Kennedy’s assas-sin. Apparently, he missed his chance to engage Oswald on the street. He found his way to the 6th floor, moments before the fatal shots were fired, and tried to wrestle the rifle away from the shooter. But the older, stronger Oswald mortally wounded Clifford. Oswald then aimed his sites on the presidential motorcade, and killed his victim exactly as it happened.
Clifford was pronounced dead at the hospital shortly afterward.
Hubert was now ramming his shoulder against the cottage door, trying to break it down.
I looked up at Clifford in a panic.
“Clifford!” I shouted. “Listen to me! Don’t—”
But the TV suddenly went black.
Silence.
“Cliff?”
There was no response.
I held my hand over my mouth as my eyes filled with tears. “Oh, no!” I whimpered. “Dear God!”
I clicked on a link in one of the online articles. News photos showed Clifford on an ambulance stretcher, being wheeled out of the building.
Hubert finally burst through the door.
I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck, crying hysterically.
“Amy!” said Hubert. “Are you alright?”
“I killed them!” I said, sobbing. “I killed them both.”
“I know. I was monitoring the news from that year, when I saw the reports change. I’m sorry.”
Hubert and I slowly walked to the door. A group of onlookers stood in the doorway and gawked at us.
Then a Theme Farm security guard forced his way through the crowd.
“Sorry, folks,” he said. “This attraction is now closed. Please enjoy the many other shows the park has to offer.”
“What happened?” Hubert asked the guard.
“Looks like they’ve lost the signal to 1963 for good,” he said. “That happens sometimes.”
I turned and took one last look at the dark TV screen.
“Goodbye, Cliff,” I said in a whisper.
Out in the daylight, Hubert sat me down on a bench by a tranquil lake. A beautiful water fountain erupted from the middle of it.
“I should have listened to you,” I told Hubert. “I should have left history the way it was. Instead, I got an innocent boy killed. All I wanted to do was reverse the evil that mankind does to himself.”
Hubert wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “We all wish we could do that,” he said.
“But I had more than a wish.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out the magic clicker. “I had the solution right here in my hand.”
“I guess some things are just meant to be.”
I held the tablet up and hit the play button on the video file I had made of Clifford.
“Sure I have. It’s a baseball card binder.”
“Not all things,” I said. “Maybe nothing could have prevented Kennedy’s death, but Clifford wasn’t meant to die at 18.”
Then I stood up, and with all my might flung the clicker into the middle of the lake.
Chapter 17
The Letter
I stared out at the highway ahead of me, heartsick, while Hubert drove me home. My tears were dry and my mind was clear, but I still couldn’t come to terms with having sent Clifford off to his death.
Hubert thought that talking about it would make me feel better.
“What’s done is done,” he said. “No sense in dwelling on what can’t be changed. By the next time we visit Theme Farm, you’ll have forgotten all about it.”
“I never want to go back to that place again,” I said.
“You can’t do that. What about me? It won’t be the same going in there without you. Besides, you’ll miss the opening of the new ride, The Carousel of Regression. It’s a musical tribute to the de-evolution of humankind.”
“De-evolution is right. Humanity is going backwards. We should have risen above killing each other to get what we want by now, but it’s just as true today as it was in ‘63. We’ll all be living in caves before you know it.”
“You could be right. Fortunately, there are a few brave souls around to show that there is still hope for us—like you and Clifford. I’ve never seen such courage in anyone. Take some comfort in that, Amy. You’ve earned it.”
“And what did poor Clifford earn?”
Hubert had no answer for that.
Our drive home took us past the Jiffy Fizz Cola plant. Giant renderings of their iconic, blue cans were painted on the side of it.
“I still can’t believe those cans used to be red,” said Hubert. “But they’re blue now, and I guess it’ll have to stay that way. With the time portal closed, there’s no way to reach Clifford to ask him to change it back—this is, if we could go back before. . . you know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what Hubert meant: you can’t communicate with the dead. Clifford was gone, and his memory was all that remained.
“Slow down,” I told Hubert, as we passed the old building. Clifford had known it when it was nothing more than a concrete slab. I wondered if his initials were still in the cement where he had written them as a mischievous boy. His letter of apology could still be tucked into the wall, for all I knew, waiting to be discovered.
Waiting to be discovered! That gave me an idea.
“Maybe we can’t reach Clifford,” I said, “but maybe he can still reach us. Turn around!”
“What for? Where are we going?”
“The Jiffy Fizz plant. There may be a letter there for me, postmarked 50 years ago.”
We drove up a long driveway that led to the historic building. The grounds were deserted. It was the weekend, and there probably weren’t many people on the job.
Ahead of us was a security checkpoint, and beyond its open gate, the plant’s main entrance. As we got closer, an imposing security guard stepped out of a small guard shack.
“What do we say to that guard?” asked Hubert.
“Tell him you have to use the bathroom,” I said. “Tell him it’s an emergency.”
“That’s not gonna work. He’s not going to let us through unless we can prove we have business inside.”
“Tell him I‘m the boss’s daughter, and I’m here to see Da-da.”
“Be serious.”
“Then you think of something.”
We slowed down as the guard approached us. Hubert came to a stop and rolled down the window.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the burly guard. “Do you have an appointment?”
Hubert gulped. “Well, not exactly.”
“You need an appointment before I can let you in. Is there someone I can call for you?”
“Yes . . . I mean, no . . . I mean . . . can I use your bathroom?”
“What?”
“It’s an emergency.”
“I think you’d better turn around and leave, son.”
Hubert pointed to the passenger seat. “But this is the boss’s . . .“ But the seat was empty. While Hubert had distracted the guard, I quietly slipped out the door and crept toward the building without him seeing me.
I hid behind a tall hedge growing against the wall by the front entrance. There was just room enough between the wall and the foliage for me to move around. As I inched toward the front door, I brushed aside the dirt and dry leaves at my feet to expose the building’s concrete footing. Suddenly, there it was! Etched into the concrete surface were the initials C.A.—Clifford Anderson!
I guided my fingers up the wall directly above them, looking for the gap between the bricks Clifford had told me about. I found it about 18 inches up, and felt inside with my fingertips. Something was definitely in there. Using my fingernails like tweezers, I pulled out a piece of paper wrapped in plastic—weathered, but intact.
After blowing off the dust, I opened one end, then very carefully slid out the paper. I unfolded what appeared to be standard binder paper, though yellowed with age. From the handwriting, it clearly was not Clifford’s boyhood apology. Then came my reward for my snoopiness. It was a letter from Clifford . . . written to me!
This is what it said:
November 22, 1963
Dear Amy,
It’s 5:00 AM, and I am about to leave for the bus station. There I will catch a ride to Dallas, even though I’m not quite sure why I’m doing it. What you told me about Kennedy was so fantastic that I’d be foolish not to at least investigate. I don’t know what I will find when I get there, but I’m going to follow your plan and see what happens.
Telling me what you did took a lot of courage. That’s one of the things I like best about you. There are a lot more nice things I could say, but they are too numerous to list here. It’s funny how easy it is to tell you things. I’ve never felt so comfortable around anyone.
I don’t know if I will ever talk to you again. The TV went blank before I had a chance to say goodbye. But I wrote this song last night, and it probably best describes how I feel:
Goodbye, sweet melody
You were my friend from the start
And though I’ll never see your face again
Your song stays in my heart.
So long, sweet melody
You came to me in a dream
And showed me just how lonely I have been
And what a life in love can mean.
Sweet melody
Our song had just begun
As sweet a song as anyone can play
As sweet a song as anyone can play.
Well, I gotta go. I’ll put this letter in the wall at Jiffy Fizz, in hopes that you will find it 50 years from now. That sounds like such a long time, but they say that love is timeless.
Did I say love?
Yes, Amy, I did!
Goodbye, Sweet Melody.
Cliff
I neatly folded Clifford’s letter and put it in my pocket.
Back at the gate, I saw Hubert’s car, still parked at the guard shack with the engine running. The guard was inside talking on the phone. I sprinted to the car and flung open the passenger-side door, just as the guard hung up.
“Hit it!” I told Hubert.
The engine raced.
“Hey!” shouted the guard, as we sped off in reverse. “You come back here!”
I leaned my head out the car window and shouted at him, “I’m telling Da-da on you!”
Please Pardon Our Dust read the sign in front of the Used-to-Be TV attraction. A tall barrier had been erected around the building, hiding the messy construction site from park guests. Under cover of darkness, I found an opening between the wall’s plywood sheets, just big enough for me to squeeze through. Hubert kept a watchful eye out for security guards and curious spectators. Then he signaled me that it was safe to duck inside.
Work lights lit up the attraction’s neighborhood set, revealing the false building fronts and hollow props, typical of what you would find on a movie soundstage. Seeing it kind of destroyed the illusion of a quaint, residential street in the 1960s at dusk. The sunset was only a painted wall. Audio speakers that played night sounds hung from the rafters.
The door stood open to the cottage where I had spent so much time visiting with Clifford. I crept inside the eerie, dark space. The swag lamp was off. The harsh light outside sliced through the blackness as it streamed in through the window.
I sat down on the couch and stared at the TV, as if it would magically come to life at any moment, with Clifford on the screen waiting for me.
I wasn’t quite sure why I felt compelled to return to that place. The sudden breakdown of the attraction was like having a podium mic fail in the middle of a speech. I had been cut off when there was still so much more to be said. Now I wanted the last word.
“Hey, Cliff,” I said to the blank screen. “I got your letter. Thanks for saying all those nice things. I love your new song lyrics. They’ll fit right in with all the great music that’s coming your way. You’re gonna love The Beatles. It’s going to be such a wonderful time to be young.
I kneeled down in front of the TV to get closer.
“I know you can’t hear me, Cliff. Forgive my foolishness, but letting go of someone you care so much about isn’t an easy thing to do. I can still see you right here in front of me. I can see that silly yo-yo you were so attached to before you invited me int
o your world—a world we shared in the same space, separated only by time.”
I touched the screen, slowly running my fingers down the cold glass. Then I placed my cheek against it.
“Yes, Cliff, it was love—as pure and honest as any two people can experience. No one should go through life without sharing that precious gift.”
I stood up.
“Well, I have to go now. I’m glad we had this chat, even though it was a little one-sided.”
I stood there for moment, as if Clifford was about to speak to me, but the TV lay silent. I placed my hand on the top of it one last time and bowed my head, then turned and faced the door.
I didn’t look back as I left the cottage.
I pried apart the barrier outside the attraction, and reentered the park where Hubert was waiting for me.
“You okay, Amy?” he said. “What’s it like in there?”
“Depressing,” I said. “Like going to a funeral with a TV set instead of a coffin.”
“Are you sorry you did it?”
“Not really. I think I’m ready to put the past behind me now. It’s time I started living in the present.”
“Theme Farm is now ending its normal operating day,” said a voice over the park’s PA system.
As Hubert and I exited the park, I looked up at the moon. It was full and bright, and lit up the ground like a gigantic street lamp. Was Clifford’s face up there looking down on me? No, and I don’t suppose it ever did. That was just a sentimental whim that Clifford dreamed up out of his imagination. I loved sharing that fantasy with him. But like a dream that melts away with the dawn, it was time for me to wake up.
Chapter 18
The Ruling
A fly landed on the judge’s bench, buzzing its wings as it crawled onto my emancipation papers. I had seen a fly just like it on my first day in that courtroom, clinging to a window, hoping for an escape. That fly was smart enough to avoid human contact. This one wasn’t. The judge had come prepared this time to deal with the pesky fly. He picked up a fly-swatter, and in an instant the little pest was flattened. That fly and I shared the same dream to be free. My own prospects for independence were not looking good. Bring on the Amy-swatter.
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