"That there blue in your hair. You’re a Yank, by gum, I know it."
"Yank" was the name Confederate rebels called Union soldiers during the American Civil War. I was surprised someone his age knew that. Then I noticed the Confederate-gray cap on his head.
"Oh, I get it," I said. "You’re an actor in one of those Civil War reenactment shows."
"What the Sam Hill you talkin’ about?" said the boy. "I ain’t no actor and this ain’t no show."
Well, he could have fooled me. He looked like a character straight out of a Mark Twain novel. He was scrappy, barefooted, and hadn’t bathed in weeks. His frayed pants were held up by a rope, fished through his belt loops and tied in a granny knot. A wicker hat and corncob pipe would have completed the outfit. The rifle seemed a little out of place, however, yet looked authentic enough to do some real damage.
Then it hit me. He was one of the protesters I saw on the road. He must have escaped the crop duster and run into the cornfield just like I had. I wondered, though, was this kid for real, or just another illusion conjured up by the sheep? Either way, there was no denying the realism of the tears on his face.
I put my hands down slowly and said, "You’re lost, aren’t you?"
The boy’s finger eased off the trigger. He lowered his rifle, then stroked the barrel like petting a sleeping kitten. "They said a battle was brewin’," he explained, "that Grant’s army was gittin’ close to our farm. So, I lit out to join the fightin’. Didn’t even tell my folks. Then I seen that flyin’ machine and got scared. I ran into this field, and now I can’t find my way out."
"Funny, you and I should have the same problem," I said.
The hapless boy tossed his rifle aside, and I felt safe to sit down beside him. But how could I be sitting with a child from the 1860s? Had I stepped back in time, or was this poor kid lost in his own Twilight Zone? At least now I wasn’t alone. Even sitting with someone from a century ago was better than having no company at all.
"I want you to know somethin’ right off," said the boy. "I ain’t no coward. Jus’ no good at bein’ a rebel."
"I’m a rebel, too," I said, "and no better at it than you are. My name’s Amy."
The boy removed his cap like a real southern gentleman. "Please to meet you, ma’am. Mine’s Jeb."
"Your family must be worried sick about you."
"I reckon. Hate to think what’s gonna happen to me when I get home."
My dad would have grounded me for a week for doing what that boy had done. I tried to remember what kind of punishment Tom Sawyer might have received.
"Let me guess," I said. "Your pa’s gonna tan your hide with a switch."
"No, ma’am. He’ll jus’ give me double-duty plowin’ the lower forty. He says hard work builds character, ‘ever that means. Sure don’t want to be no farmer, though."
"Let me guess again. You want to be a riverboat captain."
"Not if Ma gets her way. She’s sendin’ me to boardin’ school soon as I’m old enough."
"Then you’ll come home after that and become a war hero. Right?"
"Don’t fancy fightin’ much. I’d rather learn to read ‘n’ write. That’s what Mr. Lincoln done, and look where he’s at."
"That’s a weird thing to say, coming from a Confederate. Aren’t you supposed to hate Lincoln?"
"I reckon. He’s got the right idea about abolishin’ slavery, though. Tell ya the truth, ma’am, I think he’s a great president. You won’t tell nobody I said that, will ya?"
He continued expressing his views on everything from the Missouri Compromise to states’ rights. Here I had been picturing this boy on a porch swing, with a banjo on his knee strumming "Oh! Susanna." The last thing I expected was a Social Studies lesson from a ten-year-old.
Then a voice called out above the cornfield. "Jeb! You out here, son?"
Jeb’s eyes brightened. "It’s Pa!" he said. "Darned if he ain’t out lookin’ for me." He tilted his head up toward the sky, smiling, then his sadness returned. "Only, I ain’t so sure I want to be found."
"What are you gonna do?" I said. "Stay out here and get killed in this senseless war? Look, kid, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, a big heart, and guts. And you’ve got parents who care about you. Someday you’ll come to appreciate that. Now, get out there and find your pa—before I tan your hide!"
Jeb’s father called out again. "I ain’t gonna scold ya, son. Ma and I jus’ want you back safe."
"Reckon I better go," said Jeb. He looked up at me with grateful eyes. "Thanks for settin’ with me."
As the boy stood up, I handed him his cap. "You know your side’s gonna lose, don’t you?" I said.
"That’s what folks are sayin’," he said. "But, I reckon a feller’s gotta fight, if’n it’s for somethin’ he believes in."
"Even if it’s wrong?"
"Pa says, everyone’s gotta believe in somethin’. Don’t you believe in anythin’, Miss Amy?"
What a question! Of course I had beliefs. I wouldn’t be where I was if I didn’t have strong convictions, but damn if I could think of what they were. Maybe it was because my efforts to change the world paled to those of a child, or maybe my causes were just too unimportant. They definitely weren’t worth going to war over.
"I reckon," I said.
The boy put on his cap and tipped it toward me. "Much obliged, ma’am."
"You’re a lucky kid," I said, but the boy didn’t hear me. He had already dashed off into the field, forgetting to take his rifle in his eagerness to rejoin his family.
Then another voice called out. This one I knew. "Amy! Where the hell are you?" It was Devin.
He poked his weasel head through the leaves. Lydia was right behind him. "Why can’t you keep up us?" she said, wagging her finger at me. "What are you doing, sitting here?"
"For your information," I said, "I was having a thoughtful discussion with a young soldier from the Civil War. See, here’s his rifle." I pointed to the spot where the boy had left his weapon. The rifle was now a pile of ashes, like it had been baking under a hot sun for centuries.
"Very funny," said Devin. "Did your friend happen tell you how to get out of here?"
"No," I said, "but he got out, and I’m glad. I only wish I knew how things turned out for him."
"I don’t believe this," said Lydia. "Even if your story is true, whatever happened, it’s too late to do anything about it now."
I scooped up a handful of rifle ashes. "You’re so right," I said. "About ten wars too late."
Chapter 7
The Diner
It wasn’t long before my stomach began to growl. "Am I the only one feeling hungry?" I asked.
"How about another boost up, Amy?" said Devin. "Maybe you’ll see some golden arches out there this time."
Devin crouched down. I braced myself on his narrow shoulders, being careful not to muss his well-groomed whiskers. He staggered to his feet, then rotated me around like a periscope. I scanned the horizon. As usual, the view that hadn’t changed, but as Devin lowered me to the ground, something caught my eye. "Wait!" I said. "Take me back up."
Off in the distance, a column of smoke rose above the cornfield from a point directly in our path. Then I heard the blast of a steam whistle. "You hear that?"
"Sounds like a train whistle," said Lydia.
"And not too far off, either," said Devin.
I jumped down off Devin’s shoulders, and we raced toward the sound. I dodged the cornstalks as I ran, like a football quarterback through a defensive line. I could see daylight through the leaves up ahead. The end of the cornfield was coming up fast.
We broke through the last row of corn onto an open plain. Train tracks ran alongside the edge of the field right in front of us. Down the tracks, a huge steam locomotive hissed under a water tower, alongside a railroad station. Passenger cars were coupled behind the engine, their shiny chrome shells glistening under the sun. The train was still a good distance away, but close enough that I could smell its hot en
gine grease.
"Ladies," said Devin, with a gentlemanly bow, "transportation is provided."
Just then, the steam whistle blew again, and white smoke puffed out of the train’s smokestack. A bell clanged and the engine’s massive wheels began to turn. Our transportation was leaving—without us!
We ran for the train as it chugged down the tracks. There we were, running to catch a ride again, and like before, despite our efforts, it only got farther out of range. It was like falling down a well, and the rope to climb to safety on is just out of reach.
By the time we got to the station, the train was well on its way, leaving us no chance of catching up to it. We stood on the tracks, panting like we had just run the four-minute mile. "There’ll be another one along," said Devin. "You’ll see."
Somehow, that didn’t seem too likely. The train station looked like a whistle stop for a ghost town. Cobwebs clung to old-fashioned lampposts and waved in the breeze like torn curtains. Broken glass lay on the ground below every window.
"You think anyone was on that train?" asked Lydia.
"If there was," said Devin, "they were sure in a big hurry to get outta here."
"Who’s they?" I said. "Doesn’t look like anybody’s been here in ages." There wasn’t a soul around; no camera-toting tourists, no baggage-lugging porters, no tearful good-byes, no embracing hellos.
"Let’s have a look around," said Devin. We climbed onto the elevated platform, being careful to avoid the gaping holes where the wooden planks had rotted through.
Devin stood in the doorway to the station’s waiting room. "I’ll see what’s in here," he said. "You guys check the ticket booth. It’s out front, next to the mail box."
"Mail box?" I said. "How do you know that? Have you been here before?"
Devin gave a puzzled look while scratching his furry chin. Then he reached for his wallet in his back pocket and pulled out an old photograph from it. "I thought this place looked familiar," he said, staring at the photo. "Look at this."
Lydia and I leaned in to take a look. The black and white image showed the very same train station—clean, bright, and bustling with travelers. A distinguished-looking gentleman in a business suit was posing in front of a ticket booth.
Lydia pointed to the man in the picture. "Who’s he?"
"That’s my uncle, George," said Devin. "That’s him in his younger days. He was quite the business traveler back then."
"Your uncle’s been here? What luck! So, where are we?"
"I wish I knew. Uncle George never told me where this picture was taken, and I never thought to ask."
"And we’ve got no way to contact him, either," I said.
An old phone booth stood nearby with a rotary-dial pay phone inside. Lydia forced open the folding door, lifted the dust-covered receiver, and listened for a dial tone. "Phone’s dead," she said. "Just like this whole place." She dialed the operator just for the heck of it.
We walked around to the front of the station and found the ticket booth right where Devin said it would be. It matched the one in the photo exactly, except that it now showed its age. A long crack ran down the center of the thick glass window. A small desk bell rested on the counter. I slapped it with the palm of my hand, then poked my skunk nose through the ticket slot. "Anybody home?" No answer.
Above the window hung a blackboard with wide columns for posting arrival and departure times. Beneath the layers of chalk smudge, I could just make out the final entry: "Westbound—Departing 8:45 P.M.—July 6, 1951."
We walked back to the boarding platform and gazed down the steel tracks that seemed to stretch to infinity. The longer I stood there, the less convinced I was that another train was on its way. Still, on the slim chance one did come by, missing it would be pretty stupid. We decide to stick around to see if Devin’s prediction would come true.
I swept off a wooden bench that faced the tracks and sat down. I laid my head back, closed my eyes, and took a slow, deep breath. It was the first peaceful moment I’d had all day.
We were all so tired. Lydia sat down and was out like a light in seconds. Devin sat down next to me and began to doze off. I leaned over to read the time on his wristwatch. "6:15," said Devin, with one eye open.
The jewels on his Rolex sparkled like stars in the night sky. "You’ve probably heard this a hundred times before," I said, "but that’s a pretty awesome watch."
Devin raised his wrist and admired the elegant timepiece against the setting sun. "I’ve always treasured it," he said. "Got it from Uncle George years ago. He gave it to me out of the blue one day in the back of his private limo."
Lydia was immediately awakened at hearing the word "limo." "He must be a totally rich uncle," she said.
"That he is," said Devin. "I never learned how he made his fortune, but he sure loves to spend it. Big houses, fancy cars, expensive yachts, you name it, he’s got it."
"Must be nice, growing up rich," I said.
"Correction," said Devin. "It’s my dad’s brother who has all the loot. My father barely earns a middle-class income, and my mom’s the stay-at-home type."
"Then how is it that you’re so well-off?"
"The day I was born, my uncle opened a bank account in my name and made sure that a hefty balance was always available to me."
"Your dad and his brother must be close."
"Not even. Truth is, they hate each other. Dad would sooner see us starve than accept a handout from Uncle George. But, as you can see, that hasn’t stopped me from livin’ large."
"It hasn’t helped you from being sent to Bonehead Bootcamp, either," said Lydia.
Devin yawned. "A small price to pay for financial security, don’t you think?"
Though Lydia ached for more details on Devin’s personal wealth, she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. Devin and I soon drifted off to slumberland with her.
The train station was aglow in amber light as night fell. The old lamps had come on while we slept. I was the first one awake, and made a quick search around the station for any signs of life.
Lydia yawned and stretched out her arms. "I miss anything?"
"Any trains come by?" asked Devin, rubbing his eyes.
"Doesn’t look like it," I said, "and the place is as deserted as ever." I patted my tummy. "Who else is hungry?"
Devin walked to the edge of the platform and stuck his long nose into the night air. His whiskers pricked up as he breathed in. Then he marched toward the station entrance. "This way!"
We soon discovered a paved road and followed it into a small town. Florescent streetlights illuminated the center of a downtown business district. It had a grain and feed depot, a Western Auto parts store, and a Rexall pharmacy. A movie theater marquee displayed showtimes for The Day The Earth Stood Still, in faded red letters.
Above the town’s main intersection hung a huge banner that read "Welcome Home! High School Football Champions." I could almost hear the marching bands and cheering crowds that must have filled the street the day that sign went up. No parades for us, though. Like the train station, the town had been abandoned a half-century earlier.
We moved up onto the sidewalk where tall, dry weeds sprouted up through the cracks. Along the curb, rusty parking meters stood guard over empty parking spaces.
Despite the town being in such bad shape, I loved how it evoked a simpler time: the red-striped pole at the barber shop; the filling station with 18-cents-a-gallon gas; the bank boasting its financial assets on its front window. What I wouldn’t give to have lived in that carefree age!
Devin’s nose twitched, and he redirected us around the corner. Halfway down the block, light poured onto the street through a storefront window. A neon welcome sign glowed above its front door. Fortunately for us, it was a diner!
We hurried over to the restaurant and pushed open its stainless steel doors. The air was filled with the aroma of coffee and doughnuts. Neon signs hung all around on the walls, advertising Bubble Up Soda, Frostie Root Beer, and Howdy Doody Fudge B
ars. Les Paul’s "How High The Moon" played from a corner jukebox.
It was a perfectly charming eatery. It was also a very empty one. There were no people seated in the booths, around the chrome tables, or on the red vinyl stools at the counter.
The song ended and the jukebox went dark, leaving only the sound of buzzing neon.
Suddenly, the kitchen door swung open, and out walked a man with a red bow tie, white apron, and a paper server’s hat. He whistled cheerfully while balancing a tray of pies on his shoulder. He carefully placed the tray under the counter, unaware he had customers.
Devin cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir."
"Jiggers!" said the startled man. "Didn’t hear y’all come in. Have a seat, folks, and I’ll be right with ya." Then he retreated back to the kitchen.
The man seemed harmless enough, and we would have had no reason for fear him if not for one distinct, physical feature: his sheep head!
"Is that who I think it is?" I asked.
"That’s him, alright," said Devin. "It’s that sheep-headed sergeant again."
"What’s that guy’s problem?" asked Lydia.
"I don’t know," I said, "but if I don’t get something in my stomach, I’m gonna faint."
"Better see what’s on the menu, then," said Devin. "Don’t worry. I’ll keep a close eye on Sergeant Soda Jerk."
We crossed the checkerboard floor to the counter. The stools were the old-fashioned kind that swiveled. As we each sat down, none of us could resist the urge to go for a spin.
Bam! The kitchen door slammed into the wall as the sheep returned. We abruptly stopped spinning, our faces flushed, like naughty children who had been caught misbehaving.
"Oh, come on now," said the sheep, smiling. "You ain’t ascared of little ol’ me, are ya?" He walked over to us and shook his head. "Goodness gracious. Y’all look skinnier than a litter of wet poodles."
Then the sheep reached under the counter and produced the most scrumptious-looking apple pie I ever laid eyes on. Its sweet apple filling oozed up through a steaming, golden-brown crust.
The sheep served each of us a generous slice. Before digging into mine, I nudged Lydia and nodded toward Devin. We watched him take the first bite. Devin’s eyes rolled over with delight as he chewed, the juicy pie filling dripping from the corner of his mouth. Lydia and I grabbed our forks and dove into our pies, like it was our last meal on Earth.
The Age of Amy Page 6
