The Locket

by Maren Smith

  Picking it up, Kylie flipped it from back to front. “What is it?”

  Robert frowned, his eyes drooping half shut. “You start talking nonsense again and I’m going to whap you in the head with that.” When she only looked from him to the book, his expression lost a shade of irritation. “You seriously don’t know what a ration book is?”

  “How do I use it?” She opened the cover. “Is it…like money?”

  “No, you need money, too.” He blinked twice. “You really are serious, aren’t you?” Noticing a woman walking up the sidewalk behind her, Robert got out of the car. Coming around to her side, he caught her arm and pulled her aside. In the shade of a short alleyway, sandwiched between the store and post office, in a much softer tone, he asked, “How did you get this far into the war and not know what a ration book is?”

  “Does this mean I can’t buy food at all? Even if I did have money?” Of all the negative possibilities she’d considered about being stuck here, starving to death for lack of a ration book hadn’t been among them.

  “No, I can take you down to the registration office. If you can show ID, answer a couple hundred questions, walk through fire and brimstone, and come out unscorched on the other side, they’ll issue you a ration book.”

  His attempt at humor didn’t even register. “What…what if I don’t have ID?”

  His curiosity was beginning to metamorphosize into suspicion again. “Why don’t you have ID?”

  Oh, she had one all right. It just showed a birth date forty years from now and an expiration date of 2011. Biting her bottom lip, Kylie settled on an infinitely safer answer. “I don’t know how to drive.”

  “Use your passport.”

  “I don’t have a passport.”

  Now he really did look suspicious. “Where were you traveling that required no passport and isn’t rationing?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t want to tell you. You’ll start to think I’m crazy again.”

  He snorted all over again. “Start nothing. We’re already half a day too late for that. Trust me, you’ve got nothing to lose; you may as well just go on and spill it.”

  Fidgeting with the ration book, Kylie chewed at her bottom lip. He was going to know sooner or later. Certainly he’d known by the time he sat on that park bench for the express purpose of trapping her back in time.

  In the end, her decision to tell him the truth had less to do with honesty than it did with her extreme lack of options. Kylie cleared her throat. “Promise you won’t leave me here if I tell you.”

  Suspicion combined with supreme reluctance in his expression, before both melted seamlessly into a look of painstaking neutrality. “Okay.”

  “I met you this morning.”

  “I remember.”

  “In a park.”

  “First time it’s ever been called that,” he said but gamely, folding his arms across his chest and waiting for her to spit it all out.

  Kylie almost winced. “On a bench.”

  His eyes narrowed, shifting off to one side of her. No doubt searching his memory for anything in his orchard that could remotely be described that way.

  Now she did wince. “In the middle of winter.”

  His gaze slid back to hers and held it steadily.

  “You were ninety years old. And you kissed me. And at that time, the date was November 11th, 2008.”

  He slowly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “You told me about your life here, and how you came back from the war after losing your brothers.”

  His jaw clenched, but that was it, and it was more telling than any emotional explosion could have been.

  “I’m very sorry about that, by the way,” she finished lamely.

  Other than the rhythmic clench and release of his jaw, he didn’t move. “Yeah,” he finally said. Taking the book from her hand, he turned and started back out of the alley. He only went a few steps before rounding on her again. It took an obvious effort for him to speak calmly. “You don’t have to tell me the truth if you don’t want to, but don’t you dare lie to me again. I don’t like it, and I’m not going to take it. Not from you.”

  Kylie could hardly blame him for not believing her. If she hadn’t lived through it herself, she wouldn’t have believed her, either. Heaving a sigh, she followed him into the small store.

  Robert went as far as the front counter, where a stooped and elderly man was affixing stamps to an otherwise blank form. He glanced up when Robert said, “Hello, Mike.”

  Dropping his glasses to the tip of his nose, the old man smiled at Robert over the rims. “Little Bobby Appleby! Well now, someone told me you were home again.” His face fell. “I was so sorry to hear about Jim, Steve and William. They were good boys.”

  Robert nodded. “Thank you. How’s Beth doing these days? Any more grandbabies since last I saw you?”

  Mike beamed and held up two fingers. “Both boys. She wants to try again for a girl, but Amos has done put his foot down. Not while there’s a war on, he says.”

  Robert dutifully tsked. “I wonder if he knows about Beth’s listening problem.”

  Old Mike laughed and shook his head.

  Chit chat at an end, Robert gestured toward the back. “Do you still have a phone I might use?”

  “Oh sure, go on.” Mike shooed with both hands. “You know where it is.”

  Dropped several coins on the counter, Robert handed his ration book to the clerk. Then, taking hold of Kylie’s arm, pulled her up to the counter beside him. “This is Kylie Morgan.”

  The old clerk looked at her over the rim of his glasses, too. She waved at him and tried to smile. “Hi.”

  “She’s going to be helping me out around the house for a while. Can you show her how to use the book?”

  Mike’s eyebrows arched in surprise, but all he said was a cheerful, “Sure I can.” As he came out from behind the counter, Robert gave her one last inscrutable look over his shoulder and then disappeared into the back room. “Grab a basket, Miss Morgan, and follow me. We don’t have much, but we should have what you need.”

  It was amazing how bare the store shelves were. Only the absolute basics were stocked, and nearly all of that was rationed. As Kylie followed the old grocer up and down the sparsely stocked aisles, she gained a whole new appreciation for the stores that she was used to. There were no extravagances here, no fresh fruits and vegetables; everything was canned. A series of blue stamps dictated how many of those she could put in Robert’s cart. Red stamps governed meat, cheese, butter and cooking oil, of which there was very little to choose from. In fact, the only meat in the store were two whole birds hanging upside down in the back, headless and plucked, but with no other preparations to dictate how she should cook them. Beans and flour were sold in small individually-sized sacks. So was sugar, although that could only be purchased eight ounces at a time and on a very limited basis.

  “Now.” Mike adjusted his glasses from the tip of his nose onto the bridge, and he looked over the stamps in Robert’s book. “Do you plan to do much canning this year?”

  Thoughts of both the apple and orange orchard flittered through Kylie’s mind. “If I could, yes. It’s going to be hard on eight ounces of sugar, though.”

  “If you’re canning, there’s ways to get around that. I’ll get the registration papers. While I do that, you think about how much sugar you’re going to need.”

  Picking up one of the small sacks, she tried to gauge how many she’d need to make one batch of apple butter or orange marmalade. Then she simply stared into space, trying to remember even one full recipe from what little canning she’d help her Nana all those many years ago. She was still standing there, sifting the bag from hand to hand when Robert returned from his phone call.

  “About finished?” he asked, coming up behind her.

  Ignoring the question, she said, “What’s that big machine in the barn do?”

  “The cider press?” He blinked once. “Nothing. It’s
been broken for more years than I’ve been alive. I’ve tinkered with it once or twice, but there was no real need for it with the fruit factory in town.”

  “Maybe I could fix it. It’d give us something to do with all those apples.”

  His hands found his hips and he shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing speculatively. “You can, huh? Do you mean that, or is this all just part of your crazy talk?”

  “I worked my grandfather’s farm until I was nineteen,” she said, lifting her chin defensively. “I can build a fence, patch a roof, and repair just about anything from a lawn mower to a combine. He was a welder by trade, and he taught me how to do that, too.”

  He didn’t look impressed, but he didn’t look quite as skeptical as before either. “You any good at it?”

  “I’ve been welding in a fabrication shop for three years. I’ve had a helluva lot of compliments and very few complaints.”

  Robert stepped closer, his disbelief unwavering as he held out both hands, palm up. “Let me see them.”

  Kylie set her basket on the floor and then laid her open hands into his. Hers weren’t as rough as his, but nor was she a stranger to hard work, and she had the calluses to prove it. His eyes remained locked with hers for several heartbeats before he looked at them. Even without the locket here to amplify the sensation, when his thumb brushed an old scar that ran the length of her left index finger, she felt the same electric sizzle that she remembered on that cold park bench, jolting up through her arms and down into the pit of her belly.

  “You’re going to fix that old cider press, huh?” His eyes came back to hers. Even more slowly, he let go of her hands. “I can’t say a welder won’t be useful in that. Unfortunately, I don’t know anyone who has the equipment.”

  Kylie had forgotten all about Mike the grocer until he called out from across the store, “Old man Sutterford’s shop.” He leaned far enough out over his counter and craned his head in order to see them, halfway down the second aisle. “The shop’s closed now, but I believe his tools might still be in his daughter’s barn. Including his welding supplies.”

  “I don’t have the electricity to run it, Mike.” The semi-privacy of the aisle broken, Robert put a respectful distance between them again.

  “Doesn’t need electricity,” Mike announced with a smile. “When he came out to fix my car, he worked that thing right off the car battery. Maybelle might still have it. Even better, I’ve got a package here I was going to run out to her on my way home. If you take it for me, maybe she’ll be willing to let you borrow it.”

  Robert looked at her; her hands dwarfed by his, she stared silently back, her whole body feeling electrified by his touch. She could feel it in her breasts, in the peaks of each nipple scraping up against the fabric of her dress as if it were made of steel wool. She could feel it trickling down between her clenching thighs, sparking and tingling in ways that made her face flush hot and her heart skip beats.

  Was Robert feeling the same thing?

  She couldn’t tell, but he didn’t look flustered or even just mildly disturbed.

  “All right,” was all he finally said. “I guess it won’t hurt anything to try.”

  Letting go of her hands, he went to get the package from Mike and left her standing in the middle of that grocery aisle, staring stupidly after him, her whole body feeling as if she were sizzling in her skin long after he’d let her go.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “It’s not for sale,” Maybelle Cottonwood said, standing on the front porch of a farmhouse that didn’t look anywhere near big enough to house the passel of six kids that crowded along the railing beside her, like a line of Matryoshka dolls, each one slightly smaller than the last and culminating in the two-year-old balanced on her hip. Somewhat haggard and tired-looking, she wiped her one free hand on the half of her apron that she could reach as she came halfway down the four steps and stopped again. “I’d be willing to let you borrow it though. Frankly, I don’t know much about how it works, but I know Harry’d take a layer off my hide if he gets home and it’s not here waiting for him.”

  Staring off into the overgrown cherry orchard, the trees haloed with bright orange skies from the low setting sun, Kylie barely heard it when Robert said, “That’ll be fine. Only, I don’t have much cash to pay you.”

  Maybelle half-laughed. “Who does? Go on then. Maybe when you return it, you could bring me a bushel of apples. I’ve been cravin’ applesauce something fierce. If I could put up a few bottles for the winter, I’d call the exchange more than fair.”

  “Anytime you can spare your boys, I’ll make sure they come home with all they can carry,” Robert promised.

  For the first time, the woman smiled, the hard lines of her face softening just a little. “Amos, show these fine folk where we’re keeping granddaddy’s welding things.”

  The tallest of the children, a gangly and heavily freckled fourteen-year-old, came down off the porch and waved for Robert to follow him. “Barn’s back this way.”

  Kylie didn’t realize they had moved off until Robert suddenly appeared at her arm, taking her elbow in his hand and gently pulling at her. “Hey.”

  She jumped a little, finally tearing her eyes from the copse of sweet cherries to stare back at him. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “You’re the expert,” he said, though by the look on his face, she could tell he was far from convinced that she wasn’t spinning him a yarn.

  “Right.” She fell into step just behind him, but stopped again when Maybelle called after her.

  “Hey, honey. You want to take a bucket of cherries home with you?”

  Kylie swiveled midstep and promptly came back to the porch. “I’d love it, so long as it wouldn’t be a hardship for you.”

  “Oh honey,” Maybelle said with a laugh and a smile that seemed almost like a small wince. “You can only eat so many.”

  Only a few feet behind her, she heard Robert snort a laugh and mutter, “Isn’t that the truth.” He took her by the elbow again as Maybelle sent four more kids into the cherry grove with buckets in hand.

  “Thank you!” Kylie just managed to call out before he dragged her around the corner of the house and she lost sight of the porch. She pulled her elbow from his hand before his slightly faster step caused her to trip in the tall grass. “That was rude. You didn’t even give me a chance to answer.”

  “You’re the welder,” he answered, one corner of his mouth turning up in a smirk that seemed almost mocking. “I need you to check the machine. Hell if I know what I’m looking at.”

  Kylie glared at his retreating back. “It’s obvious you think I don’t either.”

  He shrugged and kept walking, not looking back. “I guess we’re going to find out, huh?”

  Stiffening, her back as straight as a broom handle, Kylie quickened her step until she caught up with him. They passed Maybelle’s garden, a series of clotheslines heavily laden with worn and patched coveralls, jeans and working shirts, and a chicken yard zealously guarded by two aggressive geese, who followed them as far as the fence would allow, honking threats and with wings widely splayed. Here and there, worn paths divided the tall grass and Kylie had to step over more than one dung patty—some fresher than others—that unseen cows had left behind.

  When they reached the barn, Robert shoved open the heavy sliding door, and while he paused to see why it was sticking in the tracks, Kylie ventured in ahead of them.

  “Got any oil?” he asked Amos, but she didn’t linger to watch the repairs or wait to be shown where the welder was. She could already see it from here, stacked up next to the door as part of a small, partially-tarped mountain of old household chairs, sawhorses, and crates filled with a hodge-podge of tools and pulleys, doorknobs and lengths of rope.

  Kylie pulled back the tarp, shifting two crates and moving a rickety, old rocking chair before grasping the leather handle and dragging the heavy welder out of the pile. “Oh, wow,” she said, squatting to wipe the dust from the face. There were only two
buttons and a single glass gauge. It was an antique of an arc welder, far older than anything she had ever used before, and yet it looked brand new.

  “Is that ‘oh wow, what have I got myself into?’” Robert asked, from the barn door. “Or some other kind of ‘oh wow’?”

  “No, I can use this.” Kylie stood up, heaving the welder to one side before dusting her hands off on the seat of her skirt and delving back into the mountain of stuff. She bent over crates of twine and machine parts, sorting through hammers, pliers and wrenches, eventually came upright again, pulling the cord of the stick up and over her head until it was untangled from the rest of the ropes it had been stored with. The portable charger she found behind a rusted out toolbox and the wide paddles of what looked like an old hay thresher wheel. She accidentally knocked over a crate of old coffee cans filled with assorted nails and screws trying to pull it free.

  “Oh crap!” she said when she heard the crash.

  Standing on a short ladder, rubbing an oiled cloth along the top of the barn door, Robert still jerked around long enough to glare and bark, “Watch your mouth in front of the boy!”

  Kylie snapped upright, but just as fast bit back her scathing retort when she saw Amos’s face, a mixture of surprise and admiration competing with the freckles for domination of his features. She seethed in disgruntlement, but mentally added ‘crap’ to her list of four-lettered words to avoid saying in public.

  “Do you have any flux?” she asked Amos, who shrugged helpfully, sparking another three or four minutes of rifling through the short mountain of boxes until, with a crow of success, she emerged from a box of hinges, elaborately decorated cabinet handles, and glass and porcelain door knobs. She waved the flux in her hand. “Got it.”

  She even found a helmet and heavy apron to protect her face and clothes. And by the time Robert got the door sliding smooth and easy enough for Amos to move it with one hand, she had everything she needed to work on the cider press. She hoped, anyway.

  By the time they’d shifted all the odd and end parts of the welder up from the barn to the back of Robert’s car, the sun was almost gone and Maybelle’s oldest children had picked two big buckets of ripe, red cherries, which had been left for them on the front seat of the car.