Sightings

by B. J. Hollars

  I don’t remember much after that. It was all so long ago.

  Probably, we just wandered, kicking up dust and trying not to disturb the freshly laid chalk.

  Just talked. Talked and talked.

  Until there were no words left for us to say, nowhere left for us to wander.

  Dixie Land

  In his mind, The Confederate lived in a log cabin in the backwaters of Tennessee, beside a rocky canyon and a stream that, many years back, overflowed with the thick blood of Yankees.

  Though in reality, he resided in a twentieth-century Cape Cod on the outskirts of Nashville. A glowing BP sign illuminated just beyond the neighborhood trees. It was a fine home, complete with a two-car garage, a professionally manicured lawn, even a WELCOME mat in the backyard that played “Dixie” when stepped upon with the necessary force.

  The Confederate had a son, Confederate Junior, though most called him Junior for short. Still clinging to his baby fat, the fresh-faced seven-year-old was thick around the midsection, though what he lacked in physical prowess he more than made up for with gusto.

  While training in the backyard, The Confederate often commanded, “Junior! Bayonet ready?” to which his son snapped to attention, proclaiming, “Yes sir, Drill Sergeant, sir!”

  It was a declaration that caused the old man’s heart to swell.

  His son – his own flesh and blood – possessed the ability to maim and wound and return honor to the Confederate States of America.

  “Then affix bayonet, dear child!”

  Junior attached the metal blade to the end of a rifle with the diligence of a well-trained soldier under the command of General Thomas Jonathan Stonewall Jackson – God rest his soul and bless him. It was all one glorious motion: the insertion of the blade, the quarter turn, followed by a stomped foot.

  The Confederate cared deeply for his son, proving it each time they went hunting in the woods. When their stalking ended in gunfire, it was Junior’s shot that broke the soundless forest first. The Confederate resisted his itchy finger, only indulging in the safety shot after his son’s barrel was already cleared. Junior – still young and not yet calloused by war – often missed, and it was The Confederate’s shot that typically downed the deer, its knobby legs crumpling to the vegetation first while the remainder of heft toppled soon after.

  After each kill, Junior asked innocently, “Affix bayonet?”

  And while his father fully appreciated the gusto with which his son slaughtered, he had to deny the request.

  “Sorry, pal,” he’d say, clapping a hand to his son’s grays. “Think this one’s already dead.”

  The Confederate had a wife, a maker of time machines. She was a stay-at-home-scientist whose paychecks were stamped with the insignia of Vanderbilt University, though her work received private funding from blackout groups within the deepest bowels of the U.S. government. Once a failed psychic, she had turned her attention to the tangibles, the ease of atomic weights, the certainty of conductors. If she wanted to see the future, she reasoned, then she would have to build it herself. Two PhD’s later (one in rocket science, CalTech Class of ’94; the other quantum mechanics, MIT ’01) she walked across a stage, shook a few hands (endured a few jokes about being called “Dr. Dr.”), and earned herself a glimpse into the unknown.

  When asked what she did for a living, The Confederate boiled it down more simply: “She’s a Yankee sympathizer!” It wasn’t entirely true, though he thought it accurate enough.

  He had convinced himself that his wife’s interest in overcoming the barriers of the time-space continuum would inevitably benefit the North.

  “But Charlie, don’t you see?” his wife argued. “The benefits of time travel would positively impact all of us. The entire country. It would allow us the privilege of foresight.”

  “Oh, Lynda,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s all well and good, but you’ve forgotten about hindsight, dear. Does anyone ever stop to consider hindsight? The lessons of the past?”

  In the early years of their marriage, he’d obsessed over her work, causing her to wonder if that’s where the attraction lay. He could often be found loitering in the basement, casually inquiring what that button did, or that wire. Faithfully, she would explain everything, adding the occasional, “But please, don’t touch. I mean it.”

  He’d pause, his hands hovering just inches over the machinery, the bulbs and switches beckoning for him to come just a little bit closer. He’d absorb all he could, even when he only understood half of it.

  “So let me get this straight,” he reasoned, clearing his throat. “Time travel goes both ways, right? I mean, let’s say I want to go to the Battle of Fredericksburg, but later, I wanted to jump to . . . I don’t know, the Battle of Vicksburg. Then on to some future battle that hasn’t even happened yet. Something with lasers. Lasers versus Robots. Could I do that? Could I go to the Lasers versus Robots war directly from the Battle of Antietam? From a scientific perspective, I mean. What’s your expert opinion?”

  “Well . . . technically,” his wife conceded, erasing the formulas and speaking only in hypotheticals. “That’s our great hope; that we might correct the errors of the past while simultaneously testing the future. But it’s more complicated than that. There are paradoxes to consider, causality, mutable timelines. I think you’re failing to see the drastic ramifications of altering the cosmic plan . . .”

  “Uh-huh,” he agreed, stroking his beard. “Cosmic plan. You hit the nail on the head with that one, hon. But let’s say I have a hankering to pay a little visit to John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, but first, maybe I want to swing by Fort Wayne and pick up George Washington’s sword . . .”

  Logic was not his strong suit, though much like his son, his shortcomings were minor in comparison to his determination.

  Once, many years back, under cover of darkness, he’d snuck into Chattanooga Military Park and set to work removing a plaque proclaiming the site a “Union victory” – an assessment The Confederate deemed highly suspect, little more than another example of Northern revisionist history. A park ranger discovered him mid-removal and removed him instead, hauling The Confederate to the county jail on two separate charges: trespassing and defacing public property.

  “The crime here,” The Confederate spat while being guided into the backseat of the squad car, “is you thinking I’ve done something wrong. I’m setting the record straight. And now you’ve gone and made me a prisoner of war . . . there’s really no telling how the Rebels will respond . . .”

  “There’s no war,” the park ranger sighed wearily. “Just because you’re wearing the uniform doesn’t mean there’s a war.”

  After receiving a written warning and a light slap on the wrist, he was released the following morning, all charges dropped, provided he never again set foot in the park.

  “I promise,” he saluted. “Scout’s honor.”

  Yet by the following evening, his steadfast determination overpowered any notions of honor. He returned to the park, completing his mission without further interruption, all while humming the tune of “Dixie.”

  At midnight, from atop a silent bluff, he hurled the plaque into the mighty Chattanooga, the rushing water washing away what it couldn’t erase completely.

  The Confederate never considered himself a “Civil War eccentric,” one of those “live-in-the-past” kind of guys. After all, his home contained all the necessary accouterments.

  Running water in every sink.

  Electricity.

  They even had a computer with Internet access, though The Confederate found this particular luxury excessive (“Tell me one thing the Internet’s got that you can’t find in the Farmer’s Almanac”).

  Yet despite technology’s intrusion, theirs was a happy home. In the evenings, when he returned from his job as a grounds crewman at the local high school, he was often greeted by his son’s attempts at recreating historically accurate representations of key Civil War battles along their living room floor. J
unior strategically arranged his plastic green soldiers along the ridgeline of the couch, continually revising their formations.

  But upon returning home one August afternoon – hands still reverberating from the shakes of the mower, shoelaces dyed green – he was surprised to find Junior positioning his men along the dinner table instead. Far below, the Yankees were scattered mercilessly on the carpet.

  “If that’s supposed to be the Battle of Ball’s Bluff, then your scale’s all wrong,” The Confederate warned. “How many feet to an inch, do you figure?” He squatted beside his son, eyeballing it. “I’d give it about five feet per inch. Sound about right?”

  “Huh?” Junior asked, noticing his father’s presence for the first time.

  “Ball’s Bluff,” The Confederate repeated. “You know.” “What about it?”

  “That’s the battle you got going here, right?” he asked, fiddling with the men. “You got your Confederates here, driving the Yankees over the bluff right here, and this down here’s the Potomac. Made good use of the flank, I see, and the frontal attack. Just your scale’s off, that’s all. Nothing we can’t fix.”

  Junior shook his head.

  “It’s not Ball’s Bluff.”

  “Bean Station?”

  “No.”

  “Well, sheesh, Junior. If this is some sorry excuse for Mossy Creek, then I’ve got to say, you’ve done a pretty shoddy job handling the counterattack. Just have a look at . . .”

  “Dad, this is a battle you don’t know yet.”

  The Confederate clamped the insides of his cheeks, trying to keep from laughing.

  “Oh, a battle I don’t know yet,” he smiled. “Well, by all means, enlighten me.”

  “Well, for one thing, it’s a battle from the future,” Junior confided, still fiddling with his men.

  “Says who?”

  “Says Mom. She saw it. When she went there.”

  The Confederate’s smug smile dissipated. He pushed on his knees and rose, tearing toward the bedroom.

  “Lynda!”

  “She’s sleeping. She’s tired now. From all that traveling.”

  “Lynda,” he called even louder. “You in here? You in here, love?” He swung the bedroom door wide, spying her pale, bare feet on the carpet beside the bed.

  “Lynda!” he said, running to her.

  She stared up at him with empty eyes. Sweat dampened the top of her blouse. Her legs were exposed above the knee. An array of different colored sensors remained suction-cupped to her forehead, their wires snaking to a small, metallic shoebox. All switches were set to off, all knobs returned to zero. She shuddered as he plucked the sensors off of her and placed a hand to her forehead.

  “You’re freezing,” he whispered. “Jesus, why are you freezing?” She gasped, trying to allow the words to croak from her throat.

  “I’ve seen the future,” she whispered, her eyelids fluttering.

  “And?”

  She squeezed both hands tight on his wrist.

  “It is not . . . good.”

  While The Confederate preferred his own version of time travel (fewer wormholes, more fire pits), he nonetheless recognized the value of his wife’s own contributions.

  And so, when time allowed, he left her to her work and set out on afternoon noodling expeditions in the open waters of the Cumberland River. He was well practiced, and after years of refinement, had become quite the proficient noodler – perhaps the finest in the tri-county region. It required little skill: simply mustering the courage to dangle an arm into the freezing river and waiting for something to bite. Typically, the “something” was a catfish of impossible size, its whiskers miniature whips, its razor-sharp teeth two dozen reminders why one should never attempt to go noodling. Still, it was an enjoyable enough pastime – an activity that reminded him of his own childhood – and a tradition he looked forward to passing on to his son.

  “So . . . what do we do exactly?” Junior asked. They tromped through the wilderness in coonskin caps and deer-hide pants. This, The Confederate confided, was to help maintain a certain level of authenticity.

  “Well, the first thing you gotta do is block your mind of fear.”

  “Okay,” Junior nodded, blinking twice. “Then what?”

  “You’re already done blocking your mind of fear?”

  “Uh-huh. I did it awhile ago.”

  “Well, okay then,” The Confederate smiled proudly. “Thatta boy. So next you’ll want to hunt for a good part of the river, some place that doesn’t flow too quickly.”

  They found just the place – a narrowing brook sequestered between a rocky embankment and a few downed limbs. Father and son – careful not to let the tails of their coonskin caps fall into the water – lay belly down and stared hard into the stream.

  “Now you want to get yourself mentally prepared. And it’s not as easy as it looks. But once you are . . .”

  The Confederate took a few seconds to close his eyes and breathe deep. His heavy exhales caused his beard to waver.

  “But once you are,” he repeated, “you dunk your arm in, all the way up to the shoulder, you see.” He demonstrated, the cold creeping through him, the low, slow ache pulsing from fingertip to elbow.

  “Then what?”

  “Well, then you wait.”

  A moment passed, and the cold water entered his bones. The Confederate gritted teeth, trying to block it out. He envisioned a sunny battlefield in the summer of 1864, men playing cards, smoking cigars, far, far away from the water.

  Junior looked hard at the ground, staring at an anthill.

  “How you feeling, kid?” The Confederate chattered. “Brave?”

  “Pretty brave, I guess.”

  “Okay, then you’ll want to go ahead and put your arm in beside mine. Don’t worry, you’ll adjust to the temperature.”

  Junior considered it, eventually closing his eyes and imitating his father’s heavy breathing. The breaths continued, growing noisily, and finally, after much fanfare, Junior opened his eyes once more and said, “Couldn’t I just affix bayonet instead?”

  “No, sir,” The Confederate chuckled. “Not for noodling. No bayonets required.”

  Junior paused. He peered down.

  “So what’s down there anyway? Like, fish?”

  “Well, sure, some fish, I’d imagine.”

  “How about snakes?”

  “Sure. That’s possible.”

  Junior paused once more before continuing.

  “Are there skeletons down there, do you think?”

  The Confederate smiled.

  “Well sure, pal, probably a few Yanks. But they’re not gonna bother you. We got ’em a long time ago, remember?” The Confederate winked. “You can thank your forefathers for that.”

  Junior moved toward the river, his shaky hand tapping the top layer of water, his skin sticking from the wetness. He inched deeper, his entire arm suddenly plunging into the heart of the river, gripping it as it gripped him.

  “Good!” The Confederate cried. “That’s the spirit! Just like that.”

  Junior trembled, wincing and keeping his eyes closed tight. The Confederate heard a low humming escape from somewhere within his son’s chest. A war cry, perhaps. Or a whimper.

  “Hey, come on now. Time to be a man,” The Confederate said. “Besides, if these fish have any sense in ’em, they’ll go for the bigger bait.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “’Course I’m sure! I’m your father.”

  The Confederate listened to his son’s whimpers.

  Then, he bulged his bicep, made himself the bigger bait.

  On the days Lynda required peace and quiet for her work, The Confederate and his son practiced drill commands in the yard. The house freshly silent, she retreated once more to the shallows of the mildewed basement, reexamining the structural integrity of her time dilator, her photon reader, seeking out a better future.

  Meanwhile, father and son fit themselves into a past of their own making, pulling
on britches and wielding guns. Powerful guns. The kind that didn’t allow for mistakes.

  They marched, their rifles tucked tight alongside shoulders, their chests thrust out like peacocks.

  “Present, arms!”

  Junior attempted a rifle salute until his father allowed him to stop.

  “Order, arms!”

  They marched a bit more, boots clomping in the flower garden, displacing the mulch and the bulbs while the neighbors watched on from their windows.

  “About, face!”

  Junior turned one hundred and eighty degrees, erect and silent.

  “Forward, march!”

  The Confederate smiled as his son responded to each and every command. He knew he could continue the orders for the remainder of the morning without complaint, that his son was a good and loyal soldier.

  Much to his father’s surprise, Junior’s small frame managed the weight of the gun quite nicely. His childish chest carved hollows along the ridge of his stomach each time he inhaled, the gun fitting neatly in the space.

  After drill, the pair collapsed beneath an oak in the backyard, sipping orange Gatorade, cooling their bodies and restoring their electrolytes in the swelter of the shade. The Confederate had a stick in his left hand and busied himself drawing schematics in the dirt for the benefit of his son. Junior nodded attentively, though he’d heard them all before. There were only so many battles worth remembering.

  “So what that ol’ rascal Beauregard did was, he moved his troops north of Shiloh, like this,” The Confederate explained, drawing various x’s into the dirt. “You see, what Beauregard knew that Grant didn’t was that the terrain was highly vulnerable to sneak attacks. And he exploited that knowledge. Old Beauregard pushed the Yanks all the way back to the Tennessee River, right here, when all of the sudden . . .”

  “We won.”

  “Jesus, kid, I’m trying to tell you the story.”

  “But we did win, right? Because of Beauregard’s fine leadership and the cowardice of the Union army? That’s what you told me, isn’t it?”