by Ann Tatlock
Right now, the only thing I can imagine is Austin Buchanan wearing a tie-dyed T-shirt and a beaded headband while he’s sitting around with a bunch of peaceniks smoking weed and swaying along to the tune of “All You Need Is Love.” It may be 1916 where he is, but it might as well be 1968, far as I can see. I mean, what is he? The original flower child or something?
If he weren’t so doggone cute, I’d laugh right in his face. Maybe I’ll laugh in his face anyway. How can anyone listen to this and not crack up? I mean, the world’s on its way to hell in a hand basket, and he’s sitting there talking about peace and justice and thinking things are only going to get better? I may not understand half of what he’s talking about, but I do know how some things turn out between 1916 and 1968, and it’s not exactly pretty.
“Listen, Austin,” I say, “I hate to be the one to have to break it to you but—”
Well, good grief! How typical! Isn’t that just like a guy? The minute you’re ready to open your mouth and challenge them, they disappear as if they suddenly decided they got something more important to do than listen to a word you have to say.
27
Sheldon
Thursday, August 8, 1968
MEALTIMES CAN BE awkward. Like right now. The four of us sit around the dining room table, quietly downing our pork chops and mashed potatoes. Forks and knives tap out a dull thud on the cheap plastic plates. I search my mind for something to say, anything to break the silence. Finally, I remember. “Looks like I’ll be closing another sale tomorrow,” I announce, trying to sound enthusiastic. “All I need is the signature on the paperwork.”
Meg gazes at me down the length of the table and manages the semblance of a smile. “That’s good news, Sheldon,” she says.
Linda offers what sounds like a grunt of approval, though I can’t be sure.
Digger, his mouth bulging with food, grins at me and says, “Way to go, Dad! Pretty soon we’re going to be rich!”
“Well …” I pause and clear my throat. “I don’t know about rich, son. But—”
“Hey,” Digger cries, “I forgot to tell you guys! Last time I saw Mac he said there’s gold in these mountains and when he’s bigger he’s going to go looking for it!”
“Gold?” Meg echoes. “Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure! Mac told me some guy found enough gold around here to build himself a mansion over in Asheville.”
“Oh sure,” Linda says, rolling her eyes. “That’s crazy. There’s no gold around here.”
“There is too! Mac said so!”
“Well, what does Mac know? He’s just a kid.”
“He knows plenty. Probably more than you know—”
I sense this is a good time for me to step in. “Well, Digger, there’s been some mining done in these mountains, but mostly for gemstones, I think. And mica. And who knows, but there may be some fool’s gold out there, but I haven’t heard of gold being found around here.”
“But Mac told me he knew for sure people had found gold.”
“Well, he may think so, but—”
“Listen, Digger, I’m going to ask Austin next time I see him,” Linda says. “I bet he’ll say his little brother’s a big fat liar—”
“Mac’s not a liar!”
“All right, you two,” Meg says. “That’s enough. I’m sure there’s some way to find out whether there’s gold in these mountains, but let’s drop it for now.”
We turn back to our plates. The quiet returns. But after a moment, Meg speaks again. “So Linda, how often do you see Austin?”
Almost at once, Linda goes on the defensive. If she were a cat, her claws would be unsheathed. “I can’t help it when he shows up, Mom! I mean, I’m just sitting there or something, and next thing I know, there he is. It’s not like we’re dating or anything, and besides you don’t have to worry because he can’t even touch me, you know—”
“Linda,” Meg breaks in quietly. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just asking if you happen to see him often.”
Linda’s eyes narrow and her mouth becomes a small line as she slices a bite-sized piece of meat off the chop. If it were possible, I would say she is rather sweet on this young man who lives in 1916. If so, surely it is a rather star-crossed affair, one whose end is inevitable disappointment.
Finally she shrugs and says, “I’ve only seen him a few times. The last time was Sunday. I haven’t seen him since then. It’s kind of creepy, never knowing when he might show up. The whole thing’s kind of freaking me out but …”
She doesn’t finish. I say, “Listen, maybe I’m wrong not to move us out of this house—”
“No,” Linda says firmly. “No, I think we should stay here.”
“Me too, Dad!” Digger agrees. “This is the coolest place I’ve ever lived.”
“But,” I say, “something is happening we don’t understand. And you have to admit, it is, as you say, kind of creepy. People coming and going that don’t even live in our own time. Is everyone all right with that?”
Silence. Befitting a strange question, I suppose.
Then Digger says with a shrug, “Sure. Why not, Dad?”
And Linda says, “It’s all right with me as long as Austin doesn’t show up when I’m in the shower or something.”
“Well—” I begin, but Meg interrupts and says, “I think they may come only when we need them.”
All eyes turn to her. Linda says, “Yeah? Why do you think that, Mom?”
“I don’t know, Linda. It’s just how it seems.”
“Have you seen someone?” I ask Meg.
She nods. “A woman. Her name is Celeste. She works here in the house in 2005.”
“Wow!” Digger cries, his eyes saucers. “You’ve seen someone who lives that far in the future?”
Meg nods again and Linda whispers, “Far out! Why didn’t you tell us?”
Meg thinks about that. “I don’t know, really. I’ve only seen her once. She’s … she’s very nice. She works for the man who owns the house at that time.”
“Gavan Valdez,” I say.
“What’s that, Sheldon?”
“She must work for Gavan Valdez. He owns the house in 2005.”
“How do you know that, Dad?” Linda asks. “You’ve seen him or something?”
“Yes, I’ve met him … once.”
“Well,” Meg says. “We all seem to have our … special someone, don’t we?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “At least that’s how it seems.”
“What’s the guy like,” Linda asks, “who owns the house in the future?”
“Well, he’s a young man, a college professor.”
“Is he married?”
“I don’t know.”
“He is,” Meg says. “But it’s very strange. His wife is—” she stops and looks around. She seems reluctant to finish the sentence. “She’s a soldier in the war.”
“She is?” Linda asks.
“What war?” I ask.
“The one in 2005.”
Silence again. Then Linda says, “Criminy, they’re drafting women now? Or I mean, then—in the future? I think I’m glad I live now.”
“Who are we fighting?” I ask.
“I can’t remember—Iraq, I think Celeste said. She didn’t tell me much.”
“Man oh man, Austin would freak out if he knew.”
“Why’s that, Linda?”
“I don’t know, Mom, I mean—he’s a nice guy, but he’s kind of weird. He’s got this idea that if we can just get rid of capitalism there won’t be any more wars. But good grief!” She laughs lightly and starts to count off on her fingers. “What he doesn’t know is there’s World War One, World War Two, Korea, and now Vietnam and now we know in 2005 there’s another one. Sheesh, it would absolutely blow Austin’s mind.”
I ask, “Is the boy a communist of some sort?”
“I think he said he wants to be a socialist. Like he thinks if he can join this party he can change the world. You know, no
more poor people, no more war. Just peace and harmony and everybody’s happy.”
“Well, that’s not so strange, I suppose. A lot of people believed the same thing, back around the turn of the century,” I say. “If I’m remembering my history right, socialism was pretty popular then, much more so than now.”
“Yeah well, I was about to tell him that if he thinks America is on the road to happiness, he has another think coming. I was going to tell him the whole world’s so screwed up by 1968, it’s never going to get straightened out, but then he just up and disappeared on me.”
I think about that a moment. “Maybe,” I say, “you weren’t supposed to tell him.”
“But why not? He might as well know.”
“It may be best for him not to know. It may be—” I make a line of my mouth and pause again. “It may be there are some things we’re not supposed to tell them. And there are some things we’re not supposed to be told.”
“Why do you think that, Sheldon?”
I look at Meg and shake my head. “I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. Like your feeling about these people coming when we need them.”
“Like there are rules to this game?” she asks quietly.
“Yes,” I say. “Something like that.”
“Oh sure,” Linda spits out. “And who’s supposed to have made the rules?”
I feel myself frowning. “God?” I say. It isn’t an answer; it’s a question.
Meg looks at me but says nothing.
Linda rolls her eyes.
Digger helps himself to more mashed potatoes.
Silence comes back and settles over the room.
28
Meg
Thursday, August 8, 1968
I’M WASHING THE supper dishes when Sheldon comes in and asks if he can help dry. I don’t really want him to, but he has already picked up the dishtowel and begun to wipe the plates, so what can I do?
It’s not yet dark outside, and won’t be dark for another hour or more. Linda has gone off to work, and Digger is playing in the yard. I can see him out the window above the sink. He’s such a happy child. I hope that never changes. I hope his joy follows him into adolescence and adulthood.
Sheldon speaks, his words seeping vaguely into my thoughts like smoke curling under a door. “I’m sorry,” I say. “What was that?”
“I said, I wonder why it’s happening, this whole thing with the house. Our being able to see into other times. Why do you suppose it’s happening?”
I shake my head. “I don’t have any idea. Maybe that’s not for us to know.”
He doesn’t respond. He spends a full minute wiping the same plate before putting it away in the cupboard. Finally, he says, “There must be a reason.”
Digger jumps off the big rock in the yard, his arms spread wide like he is trying to soar. My heart swells just watching him. “Maybe we’re privileged in some way to be able to see into time,” I say, “but, I don’t know, Sheldon, I guess I’m more concerned with 1968 than with any other time.”
He stops wiping a glass and smiles at me gently. “Of course you are,” he says. “This is our time. This is where we live our lives.”
I nod and turn back to the soapy water in the sink. “I find I don’t really want to know what happens in the future.”
“No, I guess I don’t either. But I don’t think that’s what it’s all about.”
I think of the tombstones in the cemetery, and how I know that Mac will die in 1919. If I were to see his mother, the woman we saw in the hall the night of the shooting, what would I say to her? Would I tell her to hold her son close? To use every measure possible to protect him from illness? But I can’t change what has happened, what for her will happen; what’s done is done. Mac will die as a child. And I can’t warn that mother to keep him from harm. I hope and pray I never see her again.
Shuddering, I blurt out, “I just want Carl to come home.”
Sheldon lays a slightly damp hand on my shoulder. I don’t pull away. “I want that too, Meg,” he says quietly. “We have to keep believing he will.”
“But these people we see who live in the future—Celeste and that man you’ve seen—they know. They know whether he will come home or not.”
“Maybe they don’t. Why should they? They don’t necessarily know everything about us, simply because they live in the future.”
“I don’t want them to tell me what happens.”
“I don’t think that’s their job. And somehow I think they know that, just as we know it.”
I take a deep breath, and sigh heavily. “It’s all so strange.”
Sheldon laughs lightly. “Yes. Yes, it is. Who would believe it, if we told them?” He lifts his hand from my shoulder and goes back to drying the dishes.
We are quiet for a moment. Then I say, “I left Carl’s letter—the one that came today—by your reading chair. Did you see it?”
“Yes. He sounds good. He sees it as a kind of adventure, doesn’t he?”
“Because he’s young,” I say, “and he thinks he’s invincible. Even with people dying all around him, he thinks it has nothing to do with him, as though he’s exempt simply because he can’t fathom his own death.”
“But that’s human nature, isn’t it? Let’s just be glad he’s a clerk and not out leading point in the jungle somewhere.”
“I suppose. Though I find it hard to be thankful for anything concerning this war. Sometimes I think it’s never going to end. Maybe the war in 2005 is just a continuation of this war somehow. Maybe even Digger will go—”
“It will end,” Sheldon says firmly. “And Carl will come home. What was it Nixon said yesterday about his top priority if he’s elected president? He wants to bring an honorable end to the war in Vietnam, right? I think he means it. I think he wants to work for peace.”
Sheldon’s statement strikes me as naïve. “I’m not so sure,” I retort. “A man will say anything when he wants to be president.”
“Well, I suppose,” Sheldon relents. Though my gaze is beyond the window, I know he is studying me. “What else is bothering you?” he finally asks.
There is something else on my mind at the moment. Taking a breath, I confess, “It’s Linda—”
“Oh.” He gives me an understanding smile. “I know her attitude can be hard to take but—”
“No, it isn’t that. It’s something else. You see, she’s spooked by that crime spree over in Asheville. There’s been another murder—well, you’ve read about it, I’m sure. First it was that elderly couple, and now a young woman’s been killed the same way.” I look down at the pot in my hands and shake my head. “It’s awful to think about, somebody breaking into your home and doing that. The police don’t have a clue. Anyway, Linda’s afraid because she has to drive home from the ice cream parlor late at night, and she’s alone—”
“I wish she’d told me,” Sheldon interrupts. “I’ll wait up for her, of course. I’ll call down there and let her know I’ll be watching for her. After tonight, I’ll even drive her to work and pick her up if she wants.”
“Well, I think she wants to be independent and drive herself. But, yes, it would be good to let her know you’ll watch for her. We are so isolated up here on the mountainside, away from the town.”
“I don’t think we need to worry.”
“Yes, well, you never think we need to worry.”
He looks vaguely hurt. He says quietly, “I always pray for God’s protection over us.”
I think about that a moment. “Do you really, Sheldon?”
“Of course.”
I don’t want to be comforted by that but, strangely, I am. I wish I too could pray for God’s protection, but I’ve never been good at prayer. I’ve never even been very good at believing that God would intervene, even if I asked him to.
“I hope he answers your prayer then, Sheldon.”
Sheldon nods. He smiles, but his eyes are sad.
We go back to washing the dishes.
29
Linda
Thursday, August 8, 1968
“HEY, LINDA, PHONE’S for you!”
I can’t imagine who’s calling me or why, but Gloria’s hollering at me, so I’d better get back there and see who it is. I finish scooping up a chocolate cone, then step back into the office and pick up the receiver from the cluttered desk.
“Hello?”
“Honey, it’s Dad.”
“Yeah?”
Gloria gives me a questioning look like she’s wondering whether something’s happened. I shrug.
“Mom tells me you’re concerned about driving home alone—”
“Well—”
“So I just wanted to let you know I’ll be watching for you. I’ll walk you in from the car.”
I want to tell him he doesn’t have to, but I might as well admit I want him to. I mean, I don’t want to be the next person making the headlines.
“Sure, okay,” I say. “So, thanks, Dad.”
When I hang up, Gloria asks, “Everything all right at home?”
“Sure. No problem.” I’m sure not going to tell her the old man’s going to be waiting up for me like I’m some sort of sissy or something. If Gloria wants to get axed to death, that’s her business, but I’m not going to let it happen to me.
Gail didn’t even know about the murders in Asheville. “You don’t read the papers?” I asked.
“Naw. It’s too depressing. There’s never any good news anywhere.”
I hardly ever read the papers myself, but I’m not going to let on.
Gail’s out there now, serving up the coffee for the perverts. Good timing on the phone call, Dad. At least I was back in the office when the old men came in. I wonder what they’re doing here. It’s not even Saturday night. Guess we lucked out; get the honor of their company on a Thursday. Yeah, I’m sure they’ve got nothing better to do than sit around here drinking coffee and playing checkers. What a way to end a life.
And there’s Bim too, the dead man walking. Sheesh, what a face. He won’t even need to wear a mask come Halloween. That guy’s a walking zombie. If I was Gail, I’d be embarrassed to say I was related to anything like that.
