A Certain Twist in Time

by Anita K Grimm

  “Joey has been with you every single day, all his life?”

  “Unfortunately. The Catholic Church is considerin’ sainthood for me. Sadly, I’m not a member of that outfit. I’ll probably never get the recognition I deserve for puttin’ up with him.”

  And there it was. Going back in time and changing something threw everyone concerned off their original track. Their reality now was that Joey had never drowned, never died. He had been with them always. They even had memories of it.

  “Here’s a good one,” Charley said slapping the trunk of a slender pine. “A few more of these down and split and Pa will have all the railin’s he needs to build a corral out behind the barn.”

  He leaned his axe against the tree, pulled down his suspenders and drew his shirt off over his head, displaying a set of well-toned muscles that would draw the eye of any girl. Hmmm . . . . He’d called me his sweetheart, huh? If I had truly lived in 1882, I supposed I’d feel pleased about that. Only Brad already had my heart and Charley knew well enough that I saw him only on stolen time.

  He grabbed his axe and swung it back over his shoulder to deliver a mighty whack to the young pine’s lower trunk. The tree shivered. Another whack and wood chips flew. I watched him for a bit, then wandered on further into the forest where I came upon the fenced family graveyard. There stood the headstones of two sisters and one brother, but the spot where Joey’s grave had been dug looked undisturbed. No headstone, no sign the soil had ever been disrupted. As if he had never died.

  I walked back to Charley who by this time had chopped a fairly wide wedge out of the tree. “I haven’t much time left,” I told him. “It was a real pleasure to finally meet your little brother.”

  Charley stopped and mopped his brow. “Can’t believe we’ve known each other this long and you never met the little sawed-off cuss until today. Guess you’ve been lucky up to now.” He flashed his grin. “Want me to walk you back to the spring?”

  “No thanks. I can’t miss it. I’ll see you later.”

  ~ ~ ~

  I didn’t make it to the spring before the sickness came over me. By the time 2016 had vibrated back into existence, I had just a short stretch of woods before the meadow appeared. Tashunka looked up from her grazing and we rode home at a swift trot, barely making it under the two-hour deadline. All the way home I thought about the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren who I supposed had walked this earth and left their mark because Joey Perkins had lived.

  Chapter 16

  Two days later I was sent to town on Tashunka to collect the mail and pick up more coffee and some cheesecloth. The cheesecloth was for Cook. She planned to send me out later this afternoon when the day had cooled a bit to pick the ripening blackberries that grew like monster weeds at the edge of the pasture and behind Simon’s converted carriage house. The cheesecloth would be used to strain the squashed berries for making jelly.

  The night before, Brad and I had double-dated with one of his friends and his girlfriend who acted stiff and hesitant around me at first, like I was damaged goods. Or . . . I don’t know . . . like Satan’s granddaughter? They got over themselves after about an hour. While I would have preferred to be alone with Brad, I decided this was probably a good idea. It would keep us from having to resist seductive temptations which had become harder and harder each time we were together. I told him I’d be in town the next day with the horse, and he insisted on picking me up in his truck at the hitching post.

  When I arrived, he was leaning against the pickup’s door dressed in a blue Pendleton Roundup T-shirt, which gave a strong hint of his hard-muscled chest beneath, and faded jeans. Why did my heart kick up just at the sight of him?

  I slipped down off Tashunka and tied her up. Brad moseyed over and loosened her cinch a little, then took me in his arms and set my blood racing with a kiss that seemed a little on the indecent side in public.

  “Walk you to the post office, lady?” he asked suppressing his grin with obvious effort. “A lady of good reputation should not go unescorted in a rough town like Sweet Creek.”

  He slid an arm around me and we headed toward the post office, stopping on the way at Safeway for the coffee and cheesecloth. We entered City Hall, feeling the cool of the marble foyer echoing with voices and footsteps as people went about their business. I glanced up at the gilt-framed oil portrait of founding father, Ezekiel Platt, and did a double-take. Same gilt frame, same size, done in oil, only it wasn’t Ezekiel Platt. The name under the portrait read, “Joseph A. Perkins, first mayor, city father.” The painting was of Joey all right, much older than twelve of course, dignified, with graying sideburns and hair, but unmistakable. Wow. Changing the past really did change the future. I had changed the entire future of Sweet Creek by saving Joey. Have to admit to a rush of relief that he hadn’t turned out to be a serial killer or an assassin.

  What happened to Ezekiel Platt?” I asked Brad.

  “Who? Never heard of him.”

  “You know. The man whose portrait used to hang here.”

  “Joseph Perkins has hung here since my grandmother was a baby. Maybe before that even,” Brad said. He made a show of feeling my forehead to see if I had contracted a fever capable of inducing insanity. “Perkins was quite a man. Read about him there.”

  I glanced down at the bronze plaque below the painting. It read, “Joseph A. Perkins, son of a pioneering family, became the first official mayor of Sweet Creek, Oregon. He studied law, then went on to become a doctor who dedicated his life to saving others. A man ahead of his time, he always predicted a miracle drug would be discovered one day that could kill deadly infections.”

  I was stunned. Maybe Joey had never been meant to die. Maybe I was supposed to correct that tragedy and save him so that others would live because they were saved by him.

  “My best friend claims to be related to him,” Brad boasted.

  “Lucas Long Bear?”

  “No, silly. Lucas is a good friend but not my best friend. You’ve heard me talk about Matt Gordon. He’s been my best friend since kindergarten. He lives right next door to me.”

  The hair along my arms rose. Mom used to say that meant a goose had walked over my grave. “I’ve never heard you mention anyone named Matt Gordon. I thought Shelly Sandhurst lived next door to you.”

  We turned into the post office.

  “She does. Matt’s family lives on the other side.”

  “Brad,” I said, turning him toward me. “I’ve been by your house, remember? You only have one neighbor—Shelly’s family—and no house at all on the other side.”

  Brad smiled patiently. “No, darlin’,” he said softly. “You must be mistaken. Matt Gordon’s family has lived on our other side since I was a baby. His is the last house on the street.”

  I swept the mail out of Penelope’s box. My memory of seeing Brad Ryland’s house remained sharp. They had no neighbors at all on the right side.

  “This Matt guy is a relative of Joseph Perkins?”

  Brad laughed. “That’s what he claims, except Matt’s all the time telling stories. You get used to it. He’s more likely a relative of the town drunk. There aren’t any Perkins in town that I know of. Come on, sweet thing, let’s go.”

  Back at the hitching post, Brad packed the coffee, cheesecloth, and mail into Tashunka’s saddlebags. My mind was far away, wondering whatever happened to Charley Perkins.

  “All right, Emma, it’s high time you met Matt. I’ve told him all about you. Can’t believe I’ve never introduced you to him before now.” He held the truck’s passenger door open for me.

  Regardless of what Brad claimed, I knew his folks lived at the edge of town on three acres where the road turned to dirt as farms and ranches took over. I rode in silence most of the way, wondering what was wrong with Brad that he was inventing new ne
ighbors and a new best friend. They say a lot of football injuries result in concussions, and head injuries can impair memories. Poor Brad. Brain damaged, and only seventeen.

  Brad pulled into his driveway and pointed to the house next door to the right; an older house that hadn’t been there a week ago. I swear it. Instead of the weeds and pasture that had filled that space when I was last here, the front yard was fully landscaped with three mature trees and a thick lawn that was presently being mowed by a tall young man wearing a black tank top and cutoffs.

  “Hey, Matt,” Brad called over the roar of the lawnmower. He slid out of the truck. As I stepped out the passenger door not twenty yards away from this house that shouldn’t exist, Matt killed the lawnmower’s engine and walked over, never taking his eyes off me. Like Brad he was tan and muscular, and though he looked nothing like Joey or Charley Perkins, he was cute in a rugged sort of way.

  “So this is the famous Emma Ross,” he guessed, extending his hand. I shook it. “Why’s a beautiful girl like you hanging around with an ugly billy goat like Brad Ryland?”

  I laughed, liking him right away. “Only because Brad promised to save up for plastic surgery if I agreed to go out with him.”

  “Yeah, yeah. He tells all the girls that. Why wait? There’s always good-looking me, after all. We could have lots of good times while he’s saving up for a facial reconstruction and a new personality.”

  “Watch it.” Brad smacked Matt on the back of his head. “Go find your own girlfriend. This one’s taken.”

  Matt’s front door opened and a huge hairy dog with a laughing mouth galloped over, jumping on Matt briefly before coming to me.

  “See? Even your dog has the good taste not to hang with you,” Brad said as I knelt down and felt the big tongue taste my cheek.

  Matt’s mother trailed out of the house after the dog.

  “Mom,” Matt called. “Come out and meet Emma Ross and tell her she’d be much better off dating me than hanging with our skuzzy neighbor here.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Emma, dear,” Mrs. Gordon said warmly. “We’re having a barbeque tonight out back. Brad, why don’t you and Emma come join us? I’ve made my prize-winning potato salad. Brad, you could ask your mom and dad to come over too. I know my Jack has a few new fish stories for your father.”

  Brad laughed. “Oh, is that where Matt learned to tell whoppers? How ‘bout it, Em?”

  I so wanted to come. Barbeques and hairy dogs and normal families. Why couldn’t I be lucky enough as to be taken in by a family like this? “You know Penelope would never allow it,” I said in a low voice. “Besides, I have to get back. Cook wants me to pick blackberries for her.”

  Mrs. Gordon tilted her head at me, looking genuinely disappointed. “I know your great-grandmother, dear. I know how difficult she can be. I’ll speak to her at church next week and see if I can’t soften her up. We’d really love to have you come for dinner sometime.”

  “Let me go tell Mom,” Brad whispered in my ear. “Then I’ll drive you back to Tashunka.” He turned toward his house and disappeared through the front door.

  “Hey,” Matt said. “I kid around a lot, but I’m not kidding now. Thanks for taking that guy’s mind off Melinda-the-Bad-Witch. That little diva is a pack of addictive poison and Brad’s much happier now that he has you. The three of us and my lady should go take in a movie and dinner soon.”

  “You know things are complicated for me. Did Brad tell you?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know how you put up with it. We’ll figure it out, have no fear.”

  “Matt, how long have you lived here?” I just had to ask.

  “Since I was a baby. And I was even cuter than Brad back then, too.”

  Brad emerged from his house with his Mom and Dad and introduced me. I wished I’d been wearing something nicer than old jeans and a T-shirt.

  “We’ve been anxious to meet you, Emma,” Mrs. Ryland said with a warm smile. “I understand you have to be going. Please come by when you can spend some time with us.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Tashunka and I reached home nearly an hour late. The Troll was waiting for me in the parlor like a fox camped outside a rabbit hole.

  “Did you get lost?” she asked in her best sarcastic voice.

  I sighed. There was nothing else to do except put up with her. “No, Grandmother.”

  “Get thrown?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “The mare picked up a rock then, or did she throw a shoe?”

  I sighed again, bracing myself for the coming storm. “No. She’s fine.”

  “Then suppose you explain to me why it takes almost four hours to get my mail and pick up coffee and cheesecloth at the store?”

  I studied the toes of my pink and white Nikes poking out from beneath the pioneer dress I’d slipped back into on my way home. I should have made up some story to hide behind. Now it was too late.

  “Meeting a boy, weren’t you?” Grandmother nearly yelled. Her eyes bulged with rage and the veins stood out among the wrinkles on her chicken-skin neck.

  Had Simon betrayed me? My gaze flew to her face. I must have looked guilty, but I said nothing. Could she have sent someone to spy on me?

  “I thought so!” the Troll shrilled. “That’s all you little harlots think about isn’t it? Boys, boys, boys.”

  Cook glided silently into the parlor behind Grandmother who was just warming up.

  “What do I have to do? Chain you to your bedroom wall or lock you in the cellar? That’s the last time you’ll be allowed to ride the mare to town, that’s for sure.”

  “Ma’am,” Cook said softly, “you know the doctor said not to get yourself upset.”

  “How do I avoid getting upset when I have a whore for a great-granddaughter? Tell me that.”

  The sudden sting of tears formed at the back of my eyes. I fought to control them. The Troll must never know she’d gotten to me.

  Cook glanced at me over the Troll’s shoulder with sad dark eyes. “Miss Emma, you go straight to your room until I call for you. Miss Ross, come into the kitchen now and have a nice cup of tea. You mustn’t be raising your blood pressure like this. Doctor said not to. Have you taken your pills today?” Cook put an arm gently around the old woman and guided her toward the kitchen.

  I took the stairs two at a time up to my cell and slammed my door. That old woman was hateful and abusive. Maybe if I threw a bucket of water on her, she’d melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. I should be so lucky. I turned to my best source of solace.

  May 19th, 1969

  Dear Diary:

  Q and his brother took me on a ride up Sawtooth Creek today. I rode bareback behind Q on his father’s black mare while his younger brother rode the sorrel horse Q owns. I sat tight as a coat of paint behind Q with my arms wrapped around his middle. You couldn’t have pried a slice of daylight between us with a putty knife. I liked it, of course, though it made yearning sensations swirl below my belly feeling his body move against me in rhythm to the horse. I wanted to ditch Joey and the sorrel horse and go off deep into the forest alone with Q and spend the day lying beneath the shade of the firs with nobody interrupting us. I could hardly stand being this close to Q with no relief for the way my body reacted to him. Sometimes I think Q’s ma sends his brother along just to keep us out of trouble. The heaven I feel whenever I’m alone with Q makes me stop caring about staying out of trouble.

  The weather has warmed up like summer already. When we stopped on a wide sandy spot by the creek to let the horses rest, we stripped off our shoes and stockings and waded into the water among the dragonflies and butterflies.

  Q’s brother is sixteen, old enough to have a girlfriend of his own, yet he seemed embarrassed at the sight of my bare feet and legs when I pulled up my skirt so it wouldn’t get wet. Me? If Q and
I had been alone, I might have peeled off a lot more than my shoes and socks. Q took off his shirt and rolled up his trousers. He and Joey had a rowdy water fight in the middle of the creek. Afterward we lay on warm rocks and told each other ghost stories. All too soon, it was time to go home.

  Joey? I felt the blood drain from my face. Joey was Q’s brother? The pieces fit. If Joey was sixteen in Charlotte’s diary that would have made Q the twenty-year-old she had described.

  My God! That meant Q was Charley.

  And that fit too. I was going back in time four years earlier than Charlotte had. That made Charley sixteen and Joey twelve for me. Charley had told me about his father’s black horse that Charlotte described riding. Even Charlie’s sorrel horse was mentioned. It all fit.

  Why had Charlotte written in her diary that Q’s brother was dead and then suddenly she writes that Q had a brother named Joey and no dead brother is ever mentioned again? It made no sense considering Charlotte had met Charley long before I was born. She hadn’t registered any surprise or shock about Joey suddenly being in their lives when in several diary entries before, he was dead. I sat stewing over this puzzle.

  Charlotte had met Charley when she was sixteen, long before I was born. Joey was dead when they met in 1886 because that was what had actually happened. I couldn’t have saved him then because I hadn’t been born yet and therefore couldn’t have gone back to 1876 to do it. This was making my head hurt. Then, long after Charlotte had killed herself in 1971, I was born in 2000, came to live at Penelope’s house in 2016, and accidentally traveled back in time to 1882, four years earlier than Charlotte had. I took pity on Charley’s grief and guilt over the death of his brother and figured out a way to have Charley take me back to 1876 on the exact day Joey had drowned so I could save him. After that, life had been for Charley and his family as if Joey had never died at all.