A Certain Twist in Time

by Anita K Grimm

  “That’s the same smile he wears at his day job,” Cook whispered in my ear.

  I looked the question at her.

  “Used car salesman at the lot up the street.”

  The Queen spoke. “Hush up that whispering.” She extended her gloved hand to the preacher who took it with a servile bow. I mean, who does that?

  “Why, Miss Ross,” he exclaimed with unwarranted enthusiasm. “What brings you to church this fine Sunday morning?”

  The Queen frowned and glared.

  “I mean, of course, that we have missed you for some weeks now, and it’s such a pleasure to see you again.”

  Several over-dressed church ladies oozed down the aisle in back of the minister, whispering and twittering behind their hands. Their eyeballs were hard-glued to me. It wasn’t hard to guess their topic of this morning’s gossip.

  “Pastor Stevens,” the Queen announced, “I’d like you to meet my great-granddaughter, Emma Ross.”

  He shook my hand like the limp fish he was, gushing, “Emma, dear, how perfectly splendid it is to at last meet you. The whole town has been buzzing about you.”

  I harbored no doubts about that and returned his phony smile with a cardboard version of my own.

  He winked at me conspiratorially. “Have you been saved?” he asked, like it was any of his business.

  “From what?” I replied, wide-eyed. That earned me an, I’ll-eat-you-alive-off-a-shish-kabob-skewer glare from the Troll. I didn’t care. I hadn’t seen one thing here that looked remotely authentic, including the minister, and I felt inclined to keep my soul’s private journey private.

  “I mean, my dear child, have you been baptized and accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”

  “I was baptized back when this place was still a grocery store,” I replied going for an innocent look.

  This bit of smart-mouth resulted in the Troll rounding on me with glaring eyeballs that screamed, Do you want to go sit in the car, you satanic cult infidel? Actually I did, only her mouth never really asked the question. I just shrugged as if not one scintilla of my limited IQ knew what had upset her.

  Pastor Stevens wasn’t buying my innocent act. He drew himself up as if imagined piety demanded that he extract and eradicate Satan’s own breath from my mouth. He looked kinda scary, actually. Just then the organist, a three-hundred-pound lump in a gaudy flowered dress and matching hat, sat before the keyboard and popped all her knuckles with a flourish. She hid the folding chair beneath her bulk and began to play selections from Reverent-Music-to-Sit-Down-and-Pay-Attention-By which crackled and hissed out of a small speaker aimed at the congregation. With one last glare of indignation, the minister turned on his heel and stomped away toward the stage. Talk about being saved . . . .

  The Pastor took his place at the podium and raised his hands for silence. The only sounds to be heard were the flapping of fans in the heat and a few “amen brothers.” Oh, and the flies. They buzzed about the congregation as if they smelled rotten meat, bobbing and weaving to avoid being smashed by fans.

  The seven choir members filed out from behind the plastic strips wearing faded orange choir robes. The organist began the crackly opening notes to, “We Shall Gather at the River.” The choir opened their mouths to sing only to be instantly drowned out by the congregation’s faithful.

  All through the lengthy sermon on brotherly love and damnation, I could hear loud angry whispers featuring words and phrases like, “Ross,” “How dare she?” “Demon seed,” “Unchaste and defiled.” Also occasional fan whacks followed by, “Got him!” It was a most instructive service.

  ~ ~ ~

  Near the end of August, it became almost too hot to breathe. I’d spent the morning in the garden with Simon picking beans and digging potatoes for dinner, weeding and running water down the irrigation channels between the rows of corn and tomatoes. The Troll sat inside doing needlework in front of a large oscillating fan she had purchased from Tanner’s Hardware a few days ago. When I’d asked her if I could have a smaller model for my bedroom she had snapped, “Next you’ll be wanting your own woodstove up there for winter. Just be thankful you have a roof over your head, you spoiled little parasite.”

  The stifling heat made it too hot to go for a ride and I didn’t want to hang out in the cool of downstairs for fear the Witch would think of something else she wanted done. I mounted the stairs into the oven which served as my bedroom and opened the window. As if that would do any good.

  Fishing out the diary from the crawlspace, I flopped on the bed and turned to the next few entries. Charlotte sounded frustrated as the season turned and spring emerged. The weather stayed rainy and cold, and when the rain stopped there were endless chores to prepare the garden for planting and the house for annual spring cleaning. She hadn’t been able to see Q for a long time.

  April 18, 1969

  Dear Diary:

  The weather has finally turned fair. I stole some time to walk up to the spring Saturday afternoon. New pale-green grass covers the meadow. The hardwoods are pushing out new leaves. Even the evergreens show new growth at their tips. I saw a doe so fat I just know she’ll be birthing twins in June. Q must think I abandoned him or maybe that I died. It’s been weeks since I last saw him, except in my dreams. I’ve wondered if he even comes by the spring anymore, hoping I’ll be there.

  I took a sip of water at the spring, dreading the journey back in time. I always want to go, I just hate getting there. Once the passage through time was completed, the 1886 spring and meadow stood deserted. My disappointment was terrible. The day felt warmer in 1886 than in 1969. I stayed, reveling in my freedom and the absence of my mother. Hiding out in the refuge of 1886 meant Mother couldn’t get her claws on me. She could search until the cows came home and never find hide nor hair of me. Here, I’m completely protected from her anger, her constant demands, and her endless criticism. Sometimes I think I actually hate that woman. The only good thing in my life is Q.

  An hour passed. I knew that by tracking the sun overhead. Q had taught me to do that some time ago. I’d have to be going soon. Just as I stood up and brushed down my long skirt, I heard a shout from the forest. Q’s voice is as familiar to me as my own, and I turned to see a sorrel horse and rider approaching at a canter from the east.

  My grin nearly split my cheeks as he pulled his horse to a sliding stop, swung down from the saddle and left him to graze while he ran to me and encircled me in his arms. He held me so tightly against his chest, I felt his heart beating through his shirt, pumping as hard and fast as my own. With his stubbled cheek pressed against mine, I inhaled that delicious masculine scent. I have never felt safer than I feel in his arms. He lowered his face and drew me into a deep sweet kiss I never wanted to end.

  “Charlotte, my love,” he whispered, not breaking the embrace. “I’ve been sick with worry over you. Have you been ill?”

  “No, just kept too busy by my shrew of a mother. That and the weather.” I stopped there because I had no idea what the weather had been like in 1886 for the past few weeks.

  “Charlotte, love,” Q softly scolded. “You mustn’t say such things about the woman who gave you life. She has made me the happiest man in Oregon with the gift of you. You must honor your mother and father like the Good Book says to.”

  I giggled. “You only say that because you’ve never met Mother.”

  Q took a step back, just enough that he could stare into my eyes. Was he angry? I had noticed before that my 1969 humor was not always accepted as funny or teasing in 1886. Q’s eyes, in spite of the love-light shining from them, grew serious. “I must soon meet your mother and father. It’s high time they knew about us.”

  “We’ve been over that ground before,” I told him. “It isn’t time for that yet.”

  He thumbed a stray lock of hair from my face. “My sweet, sweet Charlotte
, don’t you understand? I’m making decent money now at your father’s mill. I will love you and only you to the end of my life and will do everything in my power to protect you and make you happy. I’m asking you to marry me. Say yes, sweetheart. I don’t believe I could bear life without you. I’ll make you a devoted husband and a good provider. We’ll have lots of babies and stand strong together no matter what life sends our way.”

  The shock of such a proposal was both exciting and frighteningly painful. I am too young to marry, though in 1886 I would have been the perfect age. My heart and my passion for this beautiful sensual man made me long to scream, “Yes!” and hold him tight enough that even my mother and Old Father Time could never tear us apart. Except how would I ever be able to stay permanently in 1886? Q must never find out I am from his future. It would ruin everything. I don’t want to give him up. Not yet. He’s all I have. He’s what makes my life worth the agony of living with my mother. The problem was I probably wouldn’t last through the wedding ceremony without suddenly disappearing. I know I’m being inexcusably selfish, but I need Q, even if I only can have him for a couple hours now and then.

  “Please say yes, Charlotte. I love you with all my heart and will never be happy unless you’re by my side as my wife. You told me there was nobody else.”

  “There is nobody else. There never could be. I love you with every fiber of my being. I’m just not ready for marriage.” Tears flooded my eyes. I would have married him today, right here, this minute, if I could. Down deep, I knew this was the first sign that the end was coming.

  ~ ~ ~

  May 12th, 1969

  Dear Diary:

  I haven’t found the words for what is happening between me and Q. None, at least, that I can set onto paper. There are no words in any language that can describe how I feel when I’m with him. Suddenly all the things my mother calls me—a tramp, a harlot, a whore, a strumpet, a tart—seem to be coming true. Once in a while Q’s sixteen-year-old brother is with us, and Q doesn’t want him to become suspicious of our intentions by ordering him to go away. These brothers are pretty close, but Q and I can’t even hold hands if we aren’t alone. When we are alone, we can’t keep our hands off each other. I can barely stop things before they go too far. When I do, poor Q is a mess and I feel sorry for him and frustrated myself. He understands and then begins pleading for me to say yes and marry him. I don’t know what to do, Diary. This is killing me.

  A brother? I thought Q’s brother had died. And the brother is sixteen? Probably a better age for Charlotte. Even my late mom and dad would not have let me date a twenty-year-old man. Charlotte didn’t sound surprised to be spending time with Q’s brother. This must be another brother she had just never mentioned before now.

  I can’t help wondering how Charley’s brother Joey is doing. Sometimes kids can get pneumonia from a near drowning because too much water gets into their lungs. I hope that didn’t happen to Joey. Pneumonia was a killer back in 1876. I wonder, too, about the shock Charley’s parents had when their youngest son just walked through the door in 1882 after having been dead for six years. Had I altered other things, too, without meaning to? Did this change the fact I had even met Charley? If not, would he remember our traveling together back to 1876 and my saving Joey’s life? After all, Charley had experienced Joey being saved when he was only ten. That’s a far off time from sixteen. I wouldn’t know the answers to any of these questions until I saw Charley again.

  Frankly, the whole time travel thing boggled my mind.

  Chapter 15

  “You sure all your work is done?” Simon asked. He’d stuck his fists on his hips, a sure sign he’d brook no nonsense.

  “Yes. I promise.” My impatience was making me fidgety.

  “And you want to ride the mare where?”

  My fingernails dug into my palms, but if I showed Simon how frustrated I felt, he’d probably say no. “I want to check out the old mill and then do a little exploring. I won’t go far.”

  “You sure you ain’t meetin’ that boy up there in them woods? I won’t have none of your foolin’ around with those hot-to-trot studs up in the forest. You understand me? I ever catch you with that boy again, you’ll be one sorry little girl.”

  “No, Simon. I promise.”

  In truth, I’d gone out with Brad last night to take a walk by the river. Things had begun to get a little out of hand there under the moonlight so I told him I had to go home. No way was I taking a chance in this gossip-factory town of following Charlotte’s example, though I admit it was torture to stop when Brad’s kisses sizzled with a passion that made my good sense step aside.

  ”You get your city self lost out there in the forest and make me come lookin’ for your sorry hide and you won’t like what’ll happen to you, Missy.” Simon was forever making ominous though idle threats. Probably to cover up his fondness for me.

  “Simon,” I bordered on whining, “you know if I get lost, Tashunka will know the way home.”

  “Mebbe, only if’n you get yourself throwed and hurt, that there horse will come back without you and we won’t have a clue where to start lookin’.”

  “Si-i-i-mon,” I full-out whined. He was just looking for any excuse to say no. “You can’t treat me like a baby forever you know.”

  He grinned then, as if the whole thing had been his idea of a joke. “Okay, you and Tashunka run along then. Make no mistake. I want you back here in two hours. And I don’t mean two hours and one minute.” He gave me the stink-eye so I’d know he meant business.

  ~ ~ ~

  I bypassed the mill and short-cutted my way to the spring at a canter. It had been more than a week since I’d saved Joey’s life, and though nothing in my present life seemed to have changed as a result, I was half crazy with worry over what that might have done to Charley’s life. I left Tashunka to graze in the meadow and ran to the spring.

  The spring water slipped down my throat like sweet melted ice. Impatiently, I waited for the stomach cramps to begin. Maybe Charley wouldn’t remember me. Maybe Joey hadn’t made it after all. I never knew what to make of Fate. Was Fate real? Were our lives set down in stone? If Joey was meant to die, would he have sickened and died sometime after I saved him? A faint popping inside my head made me lie down until the sickness passed.

  When at last the discomfort slackened, I glanced around at the clearing. Tashunka had disappeared. Of course she had. She wouldn’t be born for more than a century. Was I in 1882 or had I changed my time path and gone back to 1876? A glance at the burned pine, something of a clock in time, assured me it was 1882.

  Charley wasn’t here and I only had two hours—less now—before Simon expected me home. I’d have to go in search of him. The hike east through the woods without a clear trail to follow worried me. Hoped I wouldn’t cross paths with another mountain lion. I managed to miss the Perkins’s cabin only by a small way, coming up on their barn off to the left of the house.

  Voices issued from the barn. I squatted down behind a doubled-trunked cedar as two boys emerged carrying axes. The taller one, of course, was the Charlie I knew so well, and though the shorter one had aged six years since I’d last seen him, I recognized twelve-year-old Joey. A week ago he’d been a six-year-old. Two weeks ago he’d been dead. Now he was twelve, lanky and full of himself as the boys made their way into the woods. The improbability of what I had done made me dizzy when I thought about it. I stood and followed them, listening to them brag about which one could chop a tree down first.

  “Hey,” Joey said, spinning in a slow circle with his axe over his shoulder. “I know you’re always boastin’ about how all the girls in town are sweet on you, but here you got one following you through the forest.”

  Charley stopped and spun around. I stepped out from behind a tree.

  “Emma?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

 
I felt my lungs exhale with relief. Charley still knew me. And he didn’t’ seem angry.

  Joey took a few steps in my direction, eyeing me the way a man might size up a horse for sale.

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I said. “Thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

  Joey now walked all the way around me. “This is Emma? This is the sweetheart you’re always talkin’ about?”

  Charley colored and pushed Joey’s shoulder hard. “Emma, meet my toad-headed brother, Joey. Joey, this is Emma.”

  I shook Joey’s hand as he stage-whispered to me, “You know, you could do a whole lot better than my brother.”

  “Here’s a perfect tree for fence rails, if you think you’re man enough to chop it down,” Charley said, clearly anxious to be shut of his brother.

  “I can cut that little sprig down in twenty minutes,” Joey returned. “Go find your own tree.”

  Charley laughed and I followed him deeper into the forest.

  “I’ll bet it’s nice to have Joey back at home,” I prompted, hoping Charley would give me some answers about what happened when he brought Joey into the cabin, twelve years old and back from the dead.

  “What are you talkin’ about, Emma? I dream about gettin’ Joey out of the house sometimes. So far, no such luck.” He quirked a smile at me.

  “Didn’t something happen to him when he was . . . six?”

  “What? You mean like gettin’ carried off by wild Indians? I’ve prayed for that more than once, only Indians around here are much too smart to take a sack of trouble with a grizzly bear’s appetite home to their village.” His grin slid off his face and he abruptly frowned at me with concern. “You feelin’ all right, Emma? You get hit in the head?”