Linked Through Time

by Tornese, Jessica

  The porch light flickered, jolting the two of us apart. Dave gave me a crooked grin, smoothed the hair from my face and backed away, disappearing into the night.

  My heart pounded loudly in my ears and I leaned against the wooden slats of the porch for support. My knees felt weak as I replayed the night in my mind. I wondered when I would see him again.

  I turned to enter the house, when a flash of movement in an upstairs window caught my eye. I tiptoed through the house, amazed at the stillness; the tiniest drop of a pin would echo around the walls. I managed to skip the squeaky third step of the staircase and made my way to the bedroom I shared with Louise and Janice.

  In the dim shadows of the hallway, I recognized Dean’s skinny form sneaking into his room. So he was the midnight spy, I thought with a grin, slightly embarrassed that he had been a witness to my make-out session. I was pleased that he cared enough to watch out for me, making sure I made it home.

  “Quit worrying, squirt,” I whispered into the darkness. “Dave would never let anything happen to me.” As I said this, I rubbed the sore spot on my wrist where I was sure light bruises would show tomorrow morning. The gold ring on my finger, though small and plain, felt heavy with the responsibilities Dave expected to come with it. I shook my head, trying to erase the negative thoughts. Dave was a good guy that had been blindsided with a carbon copy of his girlfriend, minus the personality. I had to expect he was going to be a little wary and confused by my behavior. Hopefully, I had done a good enough job convincing him of my intent. I squirmed down into my sheets, choosing to replay his kisses over and over in my mind.

  My father appeared in the doorway, his dark eyes serious in his scrawny face. “He better treat you good. I may be small but I’m wiry,” he said, flexing his arm to show his strength.

  I let out a small laugh and watched him scamper away. How typical. My father didn’t like my first boyfriend. The whole situation made me want to laugh out loud. Oh, how I wished I could tell someone what was really going on!

  I fell asleep, Dave’s crooked grin the last thing on my mind.

  Chapter Six

  Back to the Grind

  I awoke to the roaring buzz of a chainsaw, my thoughts scrambled and wondering if the house was being cut down around me while I slept. The light of early morning showed, to my annoyance, that it wasn’t a chainsaw, but Louise snoring with a wide-open mouth. I tried elbowing Louise in the ribs, but she only smacked her lips, expelled a tiny line of drool, and struck up the awful sound again. I couldn’t believe Janice could sleep in the same bed and continue sleeping without a hitch in her breathing.

  Giving in to the fact I wasn’t getting any more sleep, I pulled on my grimy jeans and tee from the day before and edged stealthily across the wooden floor to the stairs. My hand reached for the railing and I paused in delight, noticing the plain gold ring on my finger. Memories of the night before came rushing back, as vivid and thrilling as though they had just happened. The meaning of the ring was beyond Dave claiming me as “his girl”. I was pretty sure it was sort of like a promise ring; a precursor to an engagement ring. I felt my pulse accelerate and my cheeks flush at the mere thought of Dave, his chiseled, rugged features etched firmly in my mind. One thing I knew for sure, I was going to see as much of him as possible before I found a way to get back home.

  Breaking into my dreamlike trance, Bobby stuck his head out from behind his bedroom door. “You have my cows today, remember?” His tousled hair stood out like a mass of brambles, his eyes hung heavy with sleep.

  I swallowed hard. I had forgotten about the chores part of this whole mess. My previous elation turned to dread as I contemplated the task ahead. How the hell do I pull this off? I didn’t answer Bobby, instead choosing to focus in on the cracks in the wall as though they were suddenly very interesting.

  Rodney burst through the door behind Bobby, tugging his jeans up as he walked. He brushed past me on the stairwell and muttered, “Get your ass moving. The cows can’t wait all day.”

  I rolled my eyes. If he’d looked outside, I wanted to argue, it wasn’t really day yet. Good grief. What I wanted to do, more than anything, was crawl under the covers and sleep a few more hours, but the thunderous snores coming from my bedroom reminded me why I was up in the first place.

  I trudged the steps after Rodney, and considered making an escape. There was no possible way I could convincingly milk a cow. I was headed for trouble and the day had only just begun.

  I took my time crossing the damp grass to the barn, letting the cuffs of my jeans soak in the morning dew and cling to my ankles. Maybe if I watch Rodney, I can copy what he does and be ok. How hard can it be, squeezing the milk into a can? My pep talk did nothing to boost my confidence. The plain truth was, I was afraid of the hulking beasts and now I had to touch them. Get underneath them. In seconds, I could be squashed like a bug beneath those heaving stomachs.

  Rodney’s off-tune whistling greeted me at the door to the barn. Peering around the corner, I spotted him seated on a wooden stool, bucket in place and drawing the milk from the udders with ease. Shocked, I noticed the cow’s legs were braced together with chains, its tail tied down with a brick.

  Entering the barn, I walked up behind Rodney and frowned. “That’s cruel,” I criticized, pointing at the brick and braces.

  Rodney snorted. “Whatever, Miss High and Mighty. Your row is waiting,” he said and pointed to several cows lined up in their stalls along the opposite wall. Their tails swished together, dropping occasionally into the floor’s gutter, swirling in the mess that had built up overnight. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe through my mouth. Revulsion crept up from my stomach and clawed its way to my throat. Buzzing flies, fresh manure, and pools of urine awaited me, all before breakfast.

  “Stop calling me that. I’m here, aren’t I?” I grumbled. I watched him for a few more minutes, noting his bent posture, his careful, consistent downward pull on the teats. It didn’t look too hard. Approaching the first stall, I eyed the cow warily, waiting for it to turn its massive body and attack. When it stayed perfectly still, chewing contentedly on its hay, I moved forward. Ignoring the leg chains and opting to leave out the tail tying, I drew a wooden T-stool and metal bucket close to the side of the cow.

  Jaw clenched, I reached slowly for the cow’s udder. The cow shifted its weight, stomping its heavy legs in protest. The cow had it in for me; it stopped chewing and now stared at me with large, watery eyes. Rodney had moved three stalls away, far enough that I couldn’t use him as a visual aid any more. I’d better get going or end up swimming in the stock tank. Reaching again for the udders, I blew out a breath to steady myself. I gripped one teat firmly in my hand and started to squeeze and pull down all at the same time.

  Waiting for my weakest moment, the cow bucked, kicking its legs wildly and sent the bucket clattering across the floor. I had no time to react, my hands were frozen in place. Thwap! I flew from the stool, my face stinging from cheek to chin. The cow had smacked me square in the face with its tail, the same tail that had been resting in the vile mess of stink pooled in the gutter.

  Sitting in a state of shock, I didn’t know if I should scream, cry, or throw up the remains of my dinner from last night.

  A loud snort came from the other side of the barn. Rodney sat hunched over, milking his last cow, shaking with silent laughter. He never looked my way, which infuriated me even more. Stupid Neanderthal farm boy. He wasn’t even going to help me.

  Then I remembered… I wasn’t supposed to need any help. The first tears of despair trickled down my smelly cheeks. What was I doing? I couldn’t pretend to be Sarah any more than a cow could pretend to be a monkey. I’m a city girl, born and raised, not some cow milking, pig slopping farmhand.

  Refusing to attempt the milking again, I sat sprawled in the corner of the stall, reliving the past few days. How could I get back home? The question haunted me, playing again and again in my mind. If I had to stay as long as August, trying to repair the damage
of Sarah’s premature death, I sure as hell didn’t want to spend the next two months on the farm.

  I could run away. The thought was a blip in the back of my muddled mind. But the thought faded as quickly as it appeared. Where would I run to? I couldn’t exactly hack it in the woods for a few weeks, foraging off of nuts and berries, like some kind of warped version of the reality television show, Survivor. Tears ran unchecked down my cheeks, and I was beyond caring if Rodney heard or saw me in my pitiful shape.

  I couldn’t do the work; that much was obvious. If I wanted to make it the next couple of months, then I needed to leave. A plan began to take shape the more I thought about leaving. I could swim the river to Canada, or hitchhike to the twin cities. Times were innocent and free in the 60s, right? Wasn’t that how my dad used to describe his growing up years? I hoped so.

  A pair of work boots appeared at the corner of the stall. I raised my eyes in defiance, ready to lash out at Rodney if he said one word, but I was surprised to find it was my father, Dean. He leaned on the worn planks, frowning at my crumpled form. Without a word, he retrieved the bucket and stool that lay turned on their sides. I sat motionless, watching my father, a kid who should be climbing trees and playing make-believe, but instead worked twelve to sixteen hour days like some sort of horrid sweatshop story. He placed the leg chains on the cow’s back legs and tied a brick to the cow’s tail; my understanding coming full circle for the use of the restraints.

  “You can shovel the gutters and throw down clean hay. I’ll milk the cows,” Dean said, looking at me as though he sympathized with my distress. His eight-year-old body, wise beyond its years, splattered milk into the pail easily. “You better hurry, or there won’t be any breakfast left,” he warned.

  My heart twisted and I gave his head a rub of gratitude. My throat felt like I had swallowed a baseball and no words could express what I felt at his presence. I grabbed a pitchfork and climbed the ladder to the loft above.

  Chills raced up my spine when I spied the open hatch. I considered jumping through to chance the miraculous time travel, but I was too afraid of falling flat on my face. Deciding against the risk, I pitched hay down to the cows below.

  Shoveling the gutters was harder that I thought and it required breathing through my shirt to help disguise the smells. Each stall had to be cleaned and I dreaded getting close to the moody cows, afraid they would smell my fear and lash out with their sharp hoofs.

  Dean finished long before me and helped throw the collected piles of manure onto the spreader parked just outside the barn doors. I hurried out into the sunshine, gulping the fresh air as though I had been submerged in an actual sea of stagnant smells.

  “Thanks,” I said throwing my arm around my father’s bony shoulders. “I guess I owe you. What do you want?”

  “Can you pick ditches for me? Dad said I have to help in the woods today and I won’t have time,” he said sadly.

  Confused, I came to a stop. “Pick ditches? Why?”

  “For the bottles. The fair is coming up and dad says we don’t have enough money for tickets this year. If I can find ten bottles, that’s fifty cents, and then I can ride the Tilt-A-Whirl.” His voice went up in pitch as he described his wish of riding the rides at the fair.

  I felt my throat close tight again, and I rolled my eyes to the sky. Jeez, what was wrong with me? Everything my father said made me want to cry like a baby. His loyalty to me, his innocence, his rough life… I was a royal bitch to him every day of my teenage life and he deserved none of it. I wanted to make it up to him. I would pick a thousand ditches if it meant some small retribution for my behavior.

  “I’ll do better than ten bottles,” I promised, ruffling his hair again.

  Dean’s eyes lit up and he jumped up and down in his baggy overalls and oversized boots. He just wants to be a kid, I thought, and he can’t. There’s no time to be a kid here. Before I leave, I’m going to make sure his room is lined with bottles, I vowed.

  After breakfast, I snuck away from Louise and spent a majority of the morning crawling the highway ditches in search of littered bottles. My skin itched from waist-high weeds, mosquitoes buzzed incessantly in my ear, and sweat trickled from my neck, down my chest and pooled in what little cleavage I had.

  Blowing out a frustrated sigh, I wiped my brow. I had eight bottles. I needed help if I was going to make good on my promise to Dean. Heading back, I passed the gravel drive leading to the farm and walked to Slater’s farm store, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dave. I spotted him immediately on the roof of the store, fixing the shingles - shirtless and extremely masculine in his tool belt and tight jeans. My heart skipped and danced at the thought of running my hands over his bare, muscled chest.

  Dave chose that moment to lift his head and squint in my direction. I jumped in defense, almost diving for cover in the overgrown ditch. My curiosity was ill planned; I’d forgotten how awful I looked. He lifted his hand in a wave, dropped his tools on the roof, and scrambled down a ladder that sat propped haphazardly against the store. He reached my side before I could attempt to fix my appearance; some things were beyond repair, like the smell that emanated from my clothing. He didn’t seem to notice, however, as he pulled me into his arms and planted a firm kiss on my open mouth.

  Dave pushed me out to arms’ length. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think I’d get to see you until Sunday.”

  Flustered, I blinked twice and tried to gather my thoughts. “Dean needs money for the fair and I offered to pick ditches for him. It’s not going so well,” I said, holding up the eight bottles.

  Dave smiled, taking the bottles from me and placing them on the ground. “I’ve got it taken care of. I told you, as long as we’re together, I’ll take care of everything. I’ve got enough bottle returns in the store for all of your brothers and sisters to get tickets for the fair. And get cotton candy.”

  I threw my arms around Dave, overwhelmed at his generosity. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  I couldn’t wait to tell Dean the good news.

  Dave ran his hands up my back and into my hair. “Oh, yeah? I guess that means now you owe me,” he said with a wink, eyeing me up and down suggestively.

  My stomach gave a nervous flutter as I comprehended the meaning behind his words. Of course the tickets had some price attached. I would have to put off running away until after the fair, to make sure Dean got his tickets.

  The possibility of another date with Dave between now and my escape sent streaks of fire to my cheeks and my pulse jumped erratically. “Does that mean you’re taking me to the fair?” I asked, changing the path of direction both our minds had wandered on.

  Dave grimaced. “I’ll have to meet you there. Dad’s making me open the store half a day, so I won’t be able to get there until two.”

  “I better run.” I motioned toward the farm. “I’ve already missed out on berry picking and Louise will be looking for me soon.” I shot him a quick smile and then turned to race to the closest fence. If I cut through the fields, I’d make it to the house a lot quicker. “Thanks again!” I called out over my shoulder, turning for one last glance of Dave’s bronzed chest. He had disappeared, the bell over the door to the farm store tinkling at his entrance.

  A barbed wire fence separated me from the field. Stretching the wires apart, I edged my way between the fence’s razor sharp barbs. I jogged across the field, dodging cow pies and swatting at the flies that swarmed my head.

  Distracted, my thoughts flew between my individual predicaments with an alarming rate: Would Dave collect on his fee for the tickets at our next meeting? Could I run away and survive in the wilderness? Would I actually be able to stop Sarah’s death from happening? Would I change the future, including Dave’s feelings for me, if I did run away? What would my father think if I abandoned him?

  Leading a double life was so confusing. I had no idea who I was any more, or who I was supposed to be. I was caught somewhere between my old identity and fitting into what was expected of me in m
y new identity. The weight of the responsibility to change the past was the scariest part. I hoped I was doing the right thing.

  A flash of movement in my peripheral vision caused me to slow to a walk. I saw it, black and menacing, eyeing me from a short distance away. My heart stopped and I froze in stride. I had mistakenly crawled into the bull’s isolated patch of field, and there was at least another hundred yards between me and the safety of the bordering fence. The bull looked irritated, snuffling the air and shaking its head in my direction.

  I sent up a quick prayer and crouched low to the ground, preparing for the sprint of my life. Halfway between me and the fence, a rusty piece of farm equipment sat motionless in the field, sentenced to spend its final days retired in the open, battling the elements. If I can make it there… was all I had time to think as the bull shot forward, building up speed as it crossed the field, aiming right for me.

  I yelped and sprinted a manic flailing sprint across the field. I dove, just in time, beneath the wheels of the old farm equipment as the bull rammed his bony head into the rusty metal with a loud grunt. The machine rattled and creaked but held its ground against the repeated stabs of the bull’s horns. I tried screaming for help at the top of my lungs, but doubted anyone could hear me above the racket of horn against metal.

  Whimpering, I curled into a ball as far away from the bull as possible. How long would I be stuck here? Tears ran down my cheeks until I was a sobbing, slobbery mess. Each minute that passed, the rusty equipment emitted strained creaking groans, as if it were slowly getting ready to surrender to the bull’s attack.

  The day had to rate as the worst day ever in my short history of life. Worse than the day I wore white to school and got my period; worse than the day I lost my swimsuit top boogie boarding at the beach; and worse than the day I tripped and fell down the bleachers in front of the entire student body at my high school pep rally. None of that compared to the sheer exhaustion and fear I constantly battled, living in the life of Sarah. I wasn’t meant to live like this!