Fast Backward

by David Patneaude

  “She was standing like a yucca next to the road, not a stitch on and not very concerned about it,” I say. “Almost like she hadn’t noticed. When I pointed it out, she said her clothes had disappeared. ’Small loss,’ she said.”

  “Naked!” Doctor Kersey echoes. “It’s odd and disturbing, but what does it prove?”

  “What would it take to convince you?” I say, wondering how far I am from being convinced myself.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t believe in fairy tales, Bobby.” He hesitates. “But this morning she told me that something big is going to happen in the next few days. She said she doesn’t recall what the event will be, but it will slow the Allies’ progress toward ending the war and give Hitler and his Japanese friends new life.”

  Doc doesn’t smile. He may not believe Cocoa, but the idea of Hitler rising from the mat darkens his mood. “If something significant really does happen, I’d be more inclined to think the world has tipped on its axis and Cocoa’s claims contain some truth.”

  “So, if her prediction comes true, you’d believe that she’s a time traveler?” Dad asks.

  The doctor smiles, but it’s brief and grim. “I said some truth. But you—all of us—should hope her whole story, including the Nazi resurgence, is fantasy. I’d much rather deal with a delusional girl than a madman.”

  ELEVEN

  Mom must’ve broken into her piggybank. On our way home, two full J.C. Penney bags sit on the seat between Cocoa and me. She says thank you a million times before we get to the house and continues as she and Mom head for the bedrooms.

  A pot of chili simmers in the oven. Dad and I get busy making cornbread. All the traveling and talking and shopping and anxiety have made us ravenous, just like the skinny girl down the hall.

  I’ve just moved the chili to the stovetop and replaced it with two pans of cornbread when Mom and Cocoa appear. Mom’s wearing a smile. Cocoa’s wearing clothes that make her look like the girls at my school, many of whom turn up their noses at me because I’m the son of a coward. On her feet are white Keds and blue bobby socks, and above the spindly ankles and calves are a pair of girls’ blue jeans, rolled to just below her knee. Above them is a lightweight pink sweater, tight enough to show off her small breasts, now encased in a brassiere, maybe one with lace and frills. The sweater is short-sleeved, displaying her bony arms.

  She looks at me proudly, and when Mom takes her hand and slowly twirls her to show off her new look, Cocoa blushes. It’s the first time I’ve seen her blush. For a few moments, she’s forgotten—or at least set aside—her demons and darkness.

  Dad whistles. I imagine a big band playing—Tommy Dorsey fronted by Frank Sinatra, maybe, and me asking Cocoa to dance, and having my arms around her, and her whispering in my ear that I’m a good dancer and strong to boot. But the real me can only smile and clap. I’ve never been able to whistle. I’ve never learned to dance.

  After lunch, Cocoa winds down. Her eyes droop, her smile vanishes, her body sags. She heads off to her room for a nap.

  I’m tired but not sleepy. While Mom and Dad clean up the kitchen I feed the Andrews sisters and the sow. I make sure she hasn’t rolled over on one of her piglets, who remain nameless because of a promise I made to my parents about animals we raise to be sold or eaten. I freshen the hay in the stalls and pen, feed the chickens, clean their coop, check it for new damage. Always hopeful, Lolly tags along. I reward my pal with the biggest egg of the eleven the hens donate.

  When we return to the house, Mom is in the shower, beginning her getting-ready-for-work ritual, and Dad is at the kitchen table as usual, typing. I slip behind him to see if he’s working on a story about Cocoa, but it’s something on mining rights. Interesting? Maybe to a newspaper editor.

  Cocoa’s still asleep. Aside from the sounds of the shower and typewriter, the house is quiet. I head to my room and The Time Machine. Then, remembering Doctor Kersey telling us what Cocoa said—that something big and bad is going to happen soon—I go to the living room and turn on the news.

  I’ll read H. G. Wells’ wild-ass notions of time travel and listen for a sign that they aren’t so wild-ass after all.

  Just as Mom is ready to walk out the door, the sound of something more substantial than a car grows in the distance. By the time the sound has built to a nearby rumble, I’m at the window. An open-top truck, doorless, army-green, sits in our driveway, dwarfing the DeSoto the way the DeSoto dwarfed Doctor Kersey’s MG. It’s one of the Dodge half-tons I’ve seen around the base camp, sometimes with Uncle Pete at the wheel.

  He gets out, dressed in civvies—a T-shirt and shorts. Angry scars mar his bad knee. He wears dusty government-issue boots, which don’t go with the rest of his outfit. But he’s been traveling light since December 1941, when he quit his job as a construction foreman in Albuquerque and signed up to fight the Nazis and Japs.

  Will the war be over before it’s my turn? A week ago, I thought so, but Cocoa’s story makes me wonder.

  While Uncle Pete’s in the yard talking to Mom, I knock—and knock—on Cocoa’s door.

  “What?” she says finally. Door and distance and probably sleepiness muffle her voice.

  “Uncle Pete’s here.”

  “Open the door.”

  I do. She’s sitting on her bed in her new clothes, looking dazed. “Is he waiting for me?”

  “Saying hi to Mom.”

  She runs her hand through her tangled hair. “Give me a minute.”

  “Sure.” I turn to leave.

  “Robert?” Cocoa says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is he cool?”

  “Cool?”

  “Nice? Is he nice?”

  “Mom says that growing up he was sort of a hellion—getting in scrapes, chasing girls, skipping school. But he grew out of it, and he’s always been nice to me. Better than nice. He’ll be better than nice to you, too.”

  “I want him to believe me.”

  “He came home from the war quieter. Introspective, Mom calls it. He’s seen lots of shit, and I know some of it is hard to comprehend. He’ll listen to you. But believe? That’s a stretch.”

  She looks at me like she wants something more. Reassurance.

  “Be convincing. Nobody but me believes you.” And I’m not even sure about me.

  I turn off the radio. There’s been no big news. I’m mostly grateful. Now, the only sounds are the sporadic hailstorm of Dad’s typing, flies buzzing against the screen door, and Mom and Uncle Pete’s voices outside.

  Mom’s DeSoto cranks to life. Gravel crunches. I hear the kitchen door open, and Uncle Pete interrupting Dad’s typing.

  “Bobby asked me to come over.”

  “They’re in the living room.”

  “Nice of you and Dottie to take her—the girl—in.”

  “It was the only thing to do.”

  “It’s not the first time.”

  “Easy decisions. Both of them.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Interesting girl. Fascinating story,” Dad says.

  “I should go hear it.”

  “Yes, you should, Pete.”

  On cue, Cocoa and Uncle Pete walk into the living room from different directions. I introduce them. Uncle Pete seems unfazed by her accent or appearance. On his long and deadly march up Italy’s boot and into France he heard exotic languages and encountered starvation camp survivors. His letters home always glossed over his experiences, but even I could read between the lines.

  We sit on the sofa and briefly make small talk before Cocoa gets to the point.

  “I am from the future.”

  Uncle Pete almost smiles, but he sees the anguish on her face and catches himself. He glances at me. I try to look serious.

  Gathering himself, he listens attentively as she rushes rapid-fire, but not crazily, ahead. She’s from a place called New Dresden, formerly New Mexico—our New Mexico, but a century from now. The Axis powers—Germany and Japan—won the war with atomic bombs and threats of annihi
lation. They slaughtered and imprisoned and ruthlessly reigned for decades. But Hitler died, and the fist weakened, and countries rebelled. New wars began, and before long the wars were global and nuclear, and everybody and everything lost, including the planet, which is dying along with its remaining inhabitants.

  Most of this I’ve heard, or guessed at. But Cocoa’s gotten more specific and sure of her facts—or her story, at least—and herself. She has me more convinced, but I don’t know what Uncle Pete’s thinking as he hears her irrational words tumble out in such a rational way. He wears the same noncommittal expression I’ve seen since he returned from the war.

  “How did you get here?” Uncle Pete says.

  “When Robert first found me, I had no idea. I thought I was dreaming, or dead. But as every hour passes, more comes back. My brain must be recovering from the shock of travel.”

  “Time travel,” I say, so there’s no misunderstanding.

  “Time slippage,” she says. “A gear in the clock faltered, and for a moment, my past and your future were thrown together. I believe now it was the atomic bomb test that brought me here.”

  “Atomic bomb test?” Uncle Pete says. He’s been interested. Now she has his complete attention.

  “I believe the force of it temporarily opened up a passageway between our worlds,” Cocoa says. “I was drawn into it.”

  “No one—except the brass and brains and bigwigs—knows about the test,” Uncle Pete says. “Officially, I don’t know.”

  “It really was a test?” I say.

  “Many people know,” Cocoa says. “People who talk and whisper and spread rumors. There are spies.”

  “Spies?” I say.

  “How did you know?” Uncle Pete asks her.

  “For me it is history. I have always been fascinated with history, with what man has done to himself and the planet. How something so beautiful got so fucked up.”

  Uncle Pete doesn’t even react to this girl saying fucked.

  “I lived in a ruined library,” she continues, “because the torturing sunlight doesn’t penetrate its basement. The air is cooler and perhaps cleaner. Many of its books and newspapers and magazines remained. I devoured them. Some are in English, which I taught myself to read. Before the last of the batteries failed, I watched videos.”

  “Movies,” I say.

  “Yes,” she confirms. “Movies.”

  “No schools?” I say.

  “No schools, no teachers. Learn by surviving, and survive by learning.”

  Uncle Pete sighs. Dad appears at the kitchen entry. How much has he heard? He’s a newspaperman, curious. “Can I get anyone anything?” he asks.

  “When I am done speaking to Peter,” Cocoa says, “maybe I will have some of your rhubarb pie, Chuck.”

  “I’ll take some lemonade.” I usually don’t expect Dad to wait on me, but I’m not getting up. He exits. We stare at each other and the floor until he returns with a tray holding a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses filled with ice. He sets it on the coffee table and leaves again.

  “It’s a crazy story, Cocoa,” Uncle Pete says at last. “But that doesn’t mean you’re crazy.”

  “She isn’t,” I say.

  He looks at me apologetically, imploringly, like he’s unconvinced and wants me to convince him.

  “She knew about the atomic bomb test,” I say. “Listen to the way she talks. Hear what she has to say. Look at her.”

  Uncle Pete shakes his head. He’s been through a lot, but not this. “Time slippage,” he says, like the concept is too much.

  “I believe her.” I feel Cocoa’s eyes on me. A vote of confidence, but what’s it worth?

  “What do you want me to do?” Uncle Pete asks her. “I’m just an Army grunt.”

  “My memories continue to solidify,” she says. “Since I arrived here I have had a feeling of dread, then the feeling became more focused. Something would change the course of the war if it didn’t go unchecked. I have hoped that the sheriff or Doctor Kersey or you could talk to someone in the government and warn them. But until I woke from my nap today, I didn’t have anything specific to warn them about.”

  “Now you do?” Uncle Pete says. “Even though it came to you in a dream?”

  “It didn’t come to me in a dream. Sleep seems to recharge me. When I awake I sometimes have a clearer picture of what has been hiding in my fog.”

  “I’m not on a first-name basis with anyone important,” Uncle Pete says. “Doctor Bainbridge, who runs the base camp, makes it a point to say hello to everyone, and I’ve exchanged salutes with General Groves, an even bigger big shot, and some of his staff, but that’s about it. Doctor Oppenheimer and the rest of the scientists work long hours. I’ve barely seen them. There’s my boss, Lieutenant Bush, but he isn’t very high up. And he’s a realist. I’d have to convince him that what you’re telling us isn’t a tall tale, and then get him to talk to his bosses.”

  “Could you?” Cocoa says.

  “People have already left,” Uncle Pete says. “More are leaving. Already there aren’t as many to listen. But what’s the specific information you remember? What could I say that someone way above me—politicians and the military—would be willing and able to act on?”

  Cocoa takes a deep breath. She pulls a scrap of paper from her pocket and glances at some notes. “Because yesterday’s test was successful, your President Truman has given his approval to use the same kind of bomb to drop on Japan and a similar bomb to drop on Germany. Naval ships carrying the two bombs left California and Virginia today for an obscure island in the Pacific and Liverpool, England. The plan was—is—to load them on B-29 bombers and have specially trained crews conduct bombing missions within the next three weeks.”

  Uncle Pete and I stare at each other. If she’s making this shit up, she’s an amazing storyteller.

  “That’s pretty specific,” my uncle says.

  I picture blasts like the one I experienced, ripping apart Tokyo and Berlin and killing . . . What? Thousands? Millions? “What’s the problem, though? What’s Uncle Pete supposed to warn them about?”

  “The problem,” she says, raising her voice. Dad appears in the kitchen doorway. His curiosity has been pushed beyond its limit. “The problem is that German and Japanese submarines sink the American ships and their priceless cargoes. The course of the whole war reverses.”

  Her words are confident. I swallow them whole, but Dad looks unconvinced.

  “When?” Pete says. If he thinks she’s making this up, he’s hiding it well.

  “July 20. The sinkings are coordinated so neither ship can be warned of the other’s misfortune.”

  “Can you remember the ships’ names?” Uncle Pete asks.

  Cocoa taps her head. “I feel I have those memories in here. I had to sift through a century of history to recall what I have come up with so far. But have I not already given you enough?”

  “Look, Cocoa,” Uncle Pete says, “against all reason, this feels authentic. And scary. But I’m afraid my lieutenant wouldn’t see it that way. I had to see a head doctor while I was in the hospital for my leg, so my credibility would be lacking to start with. Lieutenant Bush would most likely consider passing along such a crazy story even crazier.” He grimaces. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Cocoa says. “This feels insane to me, too. But if your lieutenant realizes I know things I should not know . . .”

  “That isn’t necessarily a good thing,” Uncle Pete says.

  “Does she look like a spy?” I ask.

  “No, but it might help if she knew one.”

  “What do you mean?” Cocoa asks.

  “It would provide a realistic reason for you to have this information. You somehow heard a stranger talking, or you found a letter, or you were kidnapped and abandoned by men—Nazis—who are plotting against us. If I start talking about time slippage, they’ll put me in a straightjacket and send me off to a rubber room.”

  “What can we tell them?” I ask.
r />   “I don’t know,” Uncle Pete says. “Something believable. We’re short on time.” He turns to Dad, still frozen in the doorway. “Any ideas, Chuck?”

  “I’m the pacifist, remember?” Dad says.

  “And when it comes to confronting the bad guys, as useless as tits on a bull,” Uncle Pete says. “You know what the world will be like if Cocoa’s story’s true? If Hitler wins the war?”

  “It doesn’t escape me,” Dad says.

  “Then think,” Uncle Pete says. “All of us, including Dottie when she gets home, have to think. By tomorrow we have to have a reasonable—and convincing—story.” He glances at his watch. “Find me in the barracks in the morning, Bobby, and we’ll talk, but right now I have to go.”

  He gets up, hugs me, hugs Cocoa, and limps off. While the three of us gaze at each other in silence, I try to conjure up an idea that will make this work. I expect Dad to be angry over the “tits on a bull” comment; I expect Cocoa to be disappointed that we have another hurdle to jump. But they’re thinking.

  Outside, the truck thunders awake and roars into the evening heat.

  TWELVE

  Tuesday and Wednesday, July 17 and 18

  Dad may be a pacifist, but he’s never hesitated to declare war on a hen that quits producing. While Cocoa and I sit on the porch and brainstorm, he carries the unsuspecting victim to the back of the barn, where they can be alone. I try to ignore the whack of blade against feather and flesh and stump. Cocoa barely flinches. She’s no stranger to mayhem.

  A few minutes later Dad heads for the back door holding the naked carcass of the chicken, and soon we hear him rattling around the kitchen.

  “Chicken soup for supper,” I say. “Let’s get some vegetables. Loosen our thoughts, maybe.”

  It doesn’t take us long to pick green beans, peas, and tomatoes, and dig up some small onions and new potatoes. By the time we’re inside, Dad has the hen doing the backstroke in a big pot on the stove. He thanks us for the vegetables and shoos us back outside. “Geniuses need solitude,” he says.