by Jack Beal
The sound of footsteps approaching draws my attention. “No, it’s not possible,” a muffled voice argues.
“I’m not saying it is. All I’m saying is if we don’t ask, we’ll never know.”
When the bickering stops, the footsteps grow nearer.
“Robbie?” It’s Mrs. O’Ryan.
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“Can you tell me when your birthday is?”
“Yes. It’s the third of July.”
“Like mine!” Debbie chimes in.
“Yes, dear. It’s quite a coincidence,” she says, returning her attention to me. “In what year?”
“Why, in 1941. Which makes me six and two days today.”
The couple exchanges a brief look.
“But Mommy! How can…”
The sheriff lifts a finger as if to warn the little girl to bite her tongue. “I bet Robbie could use some shut-eye after all that walking. Why don’t you be a good host and show him to his room?”
“Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains.”
~Jean Jacques Rousseau
FOUR
INVISIBLE CHAINS
Sheriff O’Ryan says we’re going to the head office this morning. He’s given me some of Debbie’s clothes to wear because mine are all torn and soiled from crawling through the dirt. Debbie says I look fine, but I feel like a real nitwit.
The ride to the station is the longest I’ve ever taken, or so it seems. Everything feels wrong, and not just because the cotton overalls are cutting into you-know-who.
When we get to headquarters in Roswell, the sheriff tells me to wait in the lobby. Just what I need, anyway! Getting showcased like one of those fancy dolls in the display cabinet window downtown. All that’s missing are the two matching braids!
I watch the front door like a military sniper, ready to react at the slightest movement. When my name is finally called, I disappear into the office before you can say Jack Robinson.
I’m greeted by an old man with lots of fluffy white hair around his ears but nowhere else. “Hi there, Robbie. My name is Pat Johnson. I used to be the sheriff here in Roswell before I retired. I believe you were looking for me?”
The man sitting behind the big oak desk isn’t at all what I was expecting. He’s missing a great deal of his teeth, making him sound like an acme slide whistle when he talks. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “Yes, sir.”
“Ok, then. What can I do for you?”
“Well,” I begin, “I wanted to see you because I know my dad was here a couple of days ago.”
Sheriff Johnson listens intently as I recount the events leading up to my arrival. When I finish, he sits there contemplating.
“The thing is, Robbie,” he begins carefully, “I know you think you saw what you think you saw, but that’s not the case.”
I try to tell him he’s wrong, but he shoots me a glance that has me button it up real quick.
“There is no flying saucer, nor was there ever. Let me explain a few things to you, son. First off, what you think you saw out on the ranch saw was a crashed weather balloon.”
Codswallop! I’d say as much, but Sheriff Johnson still won’t let me get a word in edgewise.
“But it’s easy to grasp how you might have thought you saw something like that, especially with the circumstances at hand…” he drones on and on in that boring grown-up talk.
When the droning finally stops, I pick up where I left off. “I know what I saw, sir. My dad saw it, too. And Mr. Bristol, for that sake. Their cars were parked right next to the thing!”
He purses his lips and lets out a long sigh. “I know how hard it is, accepting these kinds of things…”
“If only you could tell me where my dad is, he’d clear up this whole mess! He’ll tell you what we saw!”
“Robbie, I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but it seems there’s no other way.” He waits a moment as if to let me digest what he’s said before whispering, “Your father’s gone.”
The room goes all wiggly. Sheriff Johnson is talking but his voice is muffled and distorted, as if he’s on the other side of a poorly-tuned television set. I don’t understand. Why would Dad leave? Where would he go?
He continues. “We’ve looked at your records and it seems you have no other family left. Am I mistaken?”
“When Grandmom came, Mom went away. When Dad came, it was Grandmom’s time to go. So if Dad’s gone, then…then…”
“That makes you a ward of the state. Do you know what that means?”
I cringe and look away. If I don’t admit to knowing, then maybe it can’t happen. Unfortunately, that’s not the way it goes.
“Let me explain how it works. You’re going to be taken to a place where you’ll have to stay for a while. But don’t worry, it’ll most likely only be for a real short amount of time. You see, lots of families are willing to foster a child, or even adopt him if he’s real polite.”
But I don’t want a new family. I want things to go back to the way they were.
“As for your belongings, you’re in luck. I made a few calls and it turns out the people who moved into your old house stocked everything your family left up in the attic. They’ve agreed to let you come by and take whatever you need. Once you’ve collected some of your things, I’ll drive you out to the…”
His voice trails off at the end, probably out of politeness. Regardless, the missing word is circling in my brain like a broken record. Orphanage.
“You ready?” Sheriff Johnson’s forehead is furrowed so deeply that those wispy brows of his look like they’re preparing to jump ship.
I’d do the same if I had the choice. But I don’t. Swallowing hard, I follow him somberly into the parking lot.
It’s weird, gazing up at the place where you grew up and knowing it’s for the last time. It’s the kind of thing you don’t want an audience for. The expression on Sheriff Johnson’s face tells me he understands. Pursing his lips together, he nods his head just once. “Go ahead, son.”
Feeling the most alone I’ve ever felt, I step out of the black and white and turn toward the house they say is no longer mine.
I’m standing at the bottom of the porch, drying my eyes, when a well-known sound catches my attention. It’s the squeaky screen of the house next door. When I turn to look, Willy’s mom is coming down the front steps. My heart jolts so high up into my throat I can hear it throbbing in my ears. Finally! Somebody I know!
“Mrs. Sawyer! Mrs. Sawyer!” I scuttle after her, flapping my hands wildly in the air.
She stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes bulge widely and her mouth gapes open, a motley smear of curses hanging gracelessly around her.
“Wait! Mrs. Sawyer!” But it’s too late. I make it to the edge of the Sawyers’ driveway as the car zooms away like a blue streak.
As the smell of burnt rubber lingers around me, I realize my mistake. That lady isn’t Willy’s mom. She can’t be! Mrs. Sawyer has red hair, not gray. Plus, Willy never mentioned his parents buying a new car. I bet it was Mrs. Sawyer’s sister from out of town. That’d explain why she ignored me. And the meatball of a kid in the passenger seat, too.
“Everything alright, Robbie? You need me to come along?”
Sheriff Johnson’s voice makes me jump.
It takes me a moment, but I manage to shake my head no. Placing a hand on my shoulder, the retired sheriff leads me back to the house with the big number 61 nailed to the front post. “I’ll be waiting in the car. Holler if you need me.”
And that’s where my adrenaline gives out. I stand there on t
he doorstep for a real long time, building up the courage to ring the bell. When I finally do, and the door creaks open, a stranger is standing where Dad should be. It’s a real old lady who’s so bloated I can’t help but wonder if her dress wasn’t crafted out of a tablecloth. With a great deal of effort, she crouches down so we’re face to face. Adjusting the thick horn-rimmed glasses that make her look like a great owl, she studies me for a long moment.
Wheezing heavily, she pushes herself back up. When she finally speaks, it’s like a series of airy hoots. “Poor thing, half starved to death. How ‘bout some milk and cookies?”
I nod and watch her waddle over to the icebox, which is sitting precisely where I told Dad we should put one. After pouring me a tall glass and setting it on the table, she rummages around in the pantry. When she returns, she’s holding a cookie jar in the shape of a horned owl.
“You sure like owls, don’t you!” I exclaim before I can stop myself.
But the old lady doesn’t seem to mind. Removing the bird’s head, she reaches in and plucks out a handful of chocolate chips. “I do. Owls are beautiful creatures. Mystical, too,” she chirps before disappearing in the next room. “But I’m sure you already know that, Robbie Flynn.” When she comes back, she hands me a thin illustrated paperback.
My eyes widen. It’s one of the storybooks Grandmom used to read me! As I flip from one vibrant page to the next, the tale comes back to life. It’s the story of a world doused in a strange, magical sleeping powder. When the people of the world woke up, they’d all forgotten everything about who they were. Their rituals. Their ancestors. Their purpose.
Even the great Shamans had fallen under the dust’s wicked spell. With nobody to guide the people of the world, they’d become lazy and selfish.
Snakai, the evil spirit who had cast the spell, was very happy. He wanted this world for himself, and he’d planted the seed that would destroy the people living upon it.
Snakai would slither around the world every morning, leaving piles of his skin on the Earth like markers of his territory. Each day was one day closer to the day all of this would be his. And that day was drawing near.
Until one night. As always, beneath the glowing white sphere, all the world was asleep. Only, on this night, a loud rustling caused the youngest of the shamans to stir. When he went to see what the noise was, he found himself faced with a magnificent barred owl. The owl told the young shaman he’d been sent from the spirit world to help. The present world was about to be taken over by a horrible spirit. If the shaman wanted to save it, he’d have to dispose of all the skins Snakai had left before the sun came up. After that, it would be too late.
So the shaman hastened out into the night, collecting the snake skins from the four corners of the world. “I shall burn them,” he said. But the owl shook his head. “Then your people will breathe in the smoke and they will become like the snake.
“I shall throw them in the river.” Again, the owl shook his head. “Then they will pollute your waters and your fish. Your people will drink and eat and become like the snake.”
“Then I will bury them.” But the owl shook his head a third and final time. “Then the evil within these skins will poison your soils and grow from your land, and your people will become like the snake.”
“Then what can I do, Great Owl?”
“It’s not what you can do, young one. It’s what I can do for you.” And with that, the owl took the skins in his beak and flew far away from the world. The young shaman watched from down below as the owl carried the sheddings into the sky, hanging them onto the moon.
Little by little, the beaming moon grew smaller. First by a sliver. Then, as the owl continued its trips into the night, by half. Beakful after beakful, the pile of skins lying at the young shaman’s feet diminished. In the sky, only a crescent of light remained. As the owl made its final journey into the darkness, the world was saved. But the moon had disappeared from view.
“The evening night sphere is gone!” cried the shaman.
“No. It isn’t gone. It’s just a new moon where the old one had been,” said the owl.
Ever since, the moon changes every night, repeating the same cycle it voyaged on that fateful day when the owl helped the shaman to save his world.
And that’s why the moon sheds its shadow.
I don’t know how long I sit here, lost in a world of snakes and shadows when a rustling tugs at my attention.
“Is everything alright, Robbie? You haven’t touched your cookies.” The old owl lady perched above me looks ready to swoop.
Instinctively, I snatch a chocolate chip and sink my teeth in. “Mmm,” I say, spilling crumbs out of the side of my mouth.
“You got carried away with the book, didn’t you, young man?”
I nod. Seeing that storybook was like tumbling backward into the past. A past I’d gladly return to if I could. My eyes get glassy. I look away.
The lady puts an overstuffed hand on my shoulder. “When people go away…” she begins, “When we lose somebody, they’re not really gone. Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
I frown.
She toddles over to the counter and picks up the polished wooden box. “It’s like this radio, here. Right now it’s turned off. But if I turn this knob the music starts playing.” A song bordering on classic fills the kitchen. I watch as the old owl begins swaying with the rhythm. “Blue Tango,” she says dreamily. “What a wonderful tune! But I digress. Now if I turn this knob here, the music changes.” A man’s voice croons into the kitchen. “Do you understand?”
I shake my head no.
“How can I explain? Just because you can’t hear the first song anymore doesn’t mean it’s stopped playing,” she says, turning the knob once again and returning to the tango. “It’s just on another frequency. It’s the same thing when we lose somebody we love. Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there.”
When my expression slackens, she lowers her voice, as if telling a secret. “Sometimes they’ll even give you a little sign to remind you. You just have to be looking for it.”
I forge a toothless smile.
Pleased, she takes my empty milk glass and puts it in the sink. “When we moved in, your father had been gone for a long time, and you even longer. They said they didn’t know if you’d ever come back, but it seemed awfully unfortunate to throw away all those belongings. We figured that, until we needed to make use of the space in the attic, what was the harm of hanging on to it and keeping it safe. I’m glad we did.”
I wonder if there’s a Mr. Horned Owl or if she always talks in the third person. “Thank you, Ma’am.”
I follow her into the living room and up the same flight of stairs I’d raced up countless times before. The sixth step is creakier than I remember. “You’ll have to go up alone,” she adds, unfolding the ladder leading to the attic. “These old knees won’t have it any other way.”
The attic’s dark and dingy even after tugging on the ceiling thread that sends a beam of dusty light across the room. When my eyes finally adjust, it’s like my whole life is staring back at me. It’s all here, everything that was missing from downstairs. From the kitchen table to the carved wooden sofa with its gold-colored cushions. And then there are the boxes. Boxes stacked upon boxes. Mountains of boxes.
I climb up until I’m near the top and peek in. Eureka! I couldn’t have chosen a better place to start. The box is filled to the brim with clothes! Once I’ve traded in those horrid overalls for a pair of slacks and a nice, collared shirt, I start combing through the other boxes. Those piquing my interest get shoved next to the sofa. The others end up piled back up into a Pisa-style tower.
After
I’ve finished mountaineering, I settle on the sofa and weed through my findings. Naturally, I gather all my favorite toys, including my collection of steel cars and my model plane kit. From the next few boxes, I take a hanky, a few extra pairs of clothes, and a strip of all-blue candy buttons. Then I open the final box. Inside, Dad’s shiny pins are packed up with a bundle of papers.
Untying the bow that fastens the bundle together, I watch the twine cord fall to the ground. Then I remove the first sheet from the stack and unfold it. Thin, looping letters scrawl across the paper. I trace them with my fingers, my mind revolving back to those countless times when Grandmom would sit beside me, reading from the pages noted in her own hand. The story of my mother. “But why write down a story,” I’d asked, “if you already know it by heart?”
Grandmom had stopped her recitation and rested the spiral notebook on her lap. “Because sometimes our stories aren’t just for us to learn from. If we don’t write them down, how can we hope to ever share them?”
A ball swells up in my throat as I remember Grandmom flipping to the blank pages at the end of the spiral pad. “One day, I’ll help you pen your own story.” Only time had run out.
Beneath the single tired beam of light, I turn back to the unfolded sheet. The loops are thicker and stouter than Grandmom’s and crafted in black ink. But there’s another difference, too. The letters no longer look like squiggles of gibberish. Just like at the corner store, the moment I set my eyes on the page, the words come soaring off and into my mind.
Dearest Iris, it begins.
Iris. My mom. I keep reading.
January 22, 1943
I’m not sure which is the bitterest between the sights I’ve seen, the winter winds that never cease their howling, or knowing you are so far. Please write back quickly. I need your warm words to thaw my freezing heart.
Your ever-loving Edward.