by Jack Beal
Edward. My dad.
February 14, 1943
Dearest Edward,
I hope these words will help to warm you. With every passing day, Robert makes me think of you. He’s become so determined to walk, that when his tiny legs give out, he pulls himself up with his little fists and continues. Be strong, my darling! May your son give you the strength to continue on. When you fear you’ve lost your footing, don’t forget you’ve still got two hands. It is often when we are most afraid that we accomplish the most remarkable of things! Do not lose heart! It takes but a single flame to light a fire.
With burning love to keep you warm,
Iris
It’s the last letter written in my mother’s hand. A series of pages remain, but I haven’t the pluck to keep reading. Plus, I hear the retired sheriff’s whistly voice downstairs. It must already be time to go.
Collecting everything I can carry, I cast a final glance at the life I’m forced to leave behind before shutting the trap door.
A jillion questions are clinking around noisily in my mind on the ride to the orphanage. But I can’t seem to find the words to ask any of them. In the end, the sheriff is the one to break the silence. “We’re here,” he announces, pulling under a tall brick archway furnished with a black sign: Saint Joseph of Cupertino. My teeth chatter despite the summer air. Everybody knows this place is haunted.
I swallow hard as the car creeps toward the austere-looking building with its three stories of windows, slanted roofs, and towering steeple. Sheriff Johnson parks in front of an edifice resembling a little house jutting out of the main structure. It turns out it’s the doorway in.
He helps me to take my stuff into the building before returning to his car. A few minutes later, he leans the metal shovel against the pile. For the first time, seeing it doesn’t fill me with disappointment. Instead, it’s more of a deep aching inside my gut.
“Ok, Robbie. This is where we part ways. You’re going to follow Sister Mary to your new room while I fill out the paperwork and get things squared away.”
As I follow the elderly lady, I can’t help but wonder what kind of joke it was to call these old fuddy-duddies “sisters.” In my opinion, “grandmother” would be a better option due to her age or even “grandfather,” if you were looking at the state of her chin. Either way, she leads me languidly through a high-ceilinged hall, up a flight of steep stairs and into a huge chamber with nothing but beds lined up as far as the eye can see. “Your chest is under the bed. Anything that doesn’t fit gets thrown out,” she growls. “And don’t dawdle. You’re expected in the common room with the others in five minutes.”
I open the trunk and take a step back. One whiff could nearly knock you out. “Who died in here?” I cry, immediately regretting my tactlessness. I hope ghosts don’t hold grudges!
I’m about to start packing my things in the chest when I realize I’ve forgotten my shovel down in the vestibule. I decide to go fetch it and give the chest some time to air out before confining all my things inside. So instead of following Sister’s instructions, I retrace my steps back downstairs, through the grand hall and toward the main entrance.
“F.L.Y.N.N.”
My interest piqued, I creep closer to eavesdrop.
“You’re not alluding to the Flynn boy who went missing years ago?” the priest asks.
“One and the same.” I recognize the sheriff’s whistling voice.
“But that’s impossible!”
“I’d have said the same thing until he showed up at our doorstep. And do you want to hear the weirdest part?” Sheriff Johnson has lowered his voice, forcing me to edge a bit closer so I can hear. “Not only did Robbie Flynn disappear on the very night a disc-like object was reportedly seen over the skies of Roswell…but you’ll never guess where we found him…”
“Kingman, Arizona.” Father Tinney strokes his chin pensively before shaking his head. “But it can’t be the same boy! The one you brought in today can’t be any older than six or seven…”
“Exactly! You put your finger on the strangest part, yet! How can someone disappear one day and turn up all these years later as if a day hasn’t gone by?”
“I don’t know…but I’m sure glad you told me, Sheriff. Now if you’d just sign here…Perfect. I do hereby declare Robert Flynn a ward of the State of New Mexico.”
Taking the receiver off the hook, Father Tinney pokes his finger into the dial hole and drags it around the stopper several times.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calling Walker Air Force Base.”
“What for?”
“Can you imagine the hysteria if word gets out? I’m performing my duty to protect this establishment and those within it,” he responds curtly. “And you’d be better off to do the same. Hello, Walker Air Force Base? Father Tinney from Saint Joseph’s, here. I have some information you might find interesting…”
The sound of the receiver slamming on the stand causes me to jump. “They’re on their way.”
The retired sheriff’s voice cracks. “They aren’t going to hurt him, are they?”
“I suppose that all depends on how compliant he is…and what they find when they’re probing. Either way, it’s no longer your concern.”
The blood races to my temples. My head is pounding.
The sound of footsteps heading in my direction sends me scuttling toward the heavy curtains hanging from one of the hall’s great windows. But I don’t make it there in time. My fear takes hold, freezing me like a statue in my tracks. I’m so still the priest goes barreling past me like I’m not even there. He races up the staircase toward the dormitory with Sheriff Johnson scampering a few steps behind.
I want to flee, but I’m frozen stiff. I want to be brave, but I don’t know how. Hanging my head, tears gush down. And that’s when I hear my mother’s words rushing toward me. It is when we are most afraid that we accomplish the most remarkable of things! They swirl around me in hot, loving streams, melting the icy chains that bind me.
Before I can chicken out, I bolt to the shovel which is still propped up against the wall where I forgot it. Scooping it in my arms, I dart through the double doors and out into the fresh air.
“Hey! Wait!” somebody squeals.
I run faster.
A line of flames ripples from the rafters, but I don’t see it. Racing down the driveway, I pass below the orphanage’s dangling sign and disappear around the corner without ever looking back.
“The future enters into us, in order to transform
itself in us, long before it happens.”
~Rainer Maria Rilke
FIVE
GLIMMER OF PAST. SHADOW OF FUTURE.
When the cramping in my side becomes unbearable, I slow down. My tongue, which feels as dry and cracked as the earth spreading from either side of the I-25, pokes out oddly from between my lips. It’s like it’s trying to absorb some of the humidity hanging around and making the air so heavy. Only, if anything, it’s having the opposite effect, leaving me thirstier than before.
I spot a huge puddle in the distance, right where the road butts up against the horizon. Now usually I’d never drink straight off the ground, but my mouth currently feels like I’ve been gargling with a handful of sand. I fix my gaze on the sparkling pool and quicken my stride. But the faster I race toward it, the faster it scuds on. When I stop to take a breath, so does it. That’s when I realize it’s on to me. If I want to get something to drink, I’m going to have to be extra clever. But how do you outsmart a puddle?
The idea comes on like a flashflood, spinning me around 180 degrees. The orphanage is looming in the distance. It l
ooks like something out of one of Willy’s comic books, swaying and squiggling as if it’s alive. Glancing hastily around me, I see it’s the same story everywhere. Even the place where the sand meets the sky is all wavy. It’s making me woozy, so I concentrate on the ground, which seems to be the only place that hasn’t gone all crimpy. Placing one foot slowly behind the other, I continue down the road. Backward. You see, if that cunning puddle thinks I’ve changed directions, it’ll naturally do the same and start coming closer to me!
Not wanting to wander out into the middle of the road, I cling to the solid white line that’s been painted on the asphalt’s edge, creeping one step at a time. As I grow more comfortable with the idea of moving the wrong way, my pace grows swifter and surer, until I’m racing down the I-25 backward faster than a supersonic bent on breaking the sound barrier.
After a good long moment, I spin around on my heels. But, to my surprise, the little pond is as far away as before! “No fair,” I cry, trying to figure out how that dastardly puddle could be so cunning.
My groans are drowned out by a grinding sound that’s getting louder by the second. Squinting, I manage to make out the silhouette of a car heading in my direction. Before I know it, it’s pulled up right next to me. The man inside reminds me of my dad the first time I laid eyes on him. He’s also dressed like a Christmas tree.
“Hey there, Chief!”
My jaw hangs open limply. He even talks like Dad!
“What’s a-matter? Cat got your tongue?”
“No, sir,” I manage to mutter.
“What’re you doing out here all by your lonesome?”
At first I contemplate telling the truth. Then I reject the idea. That’ll only get me taken back to the orphanage where who knows what’ll happen to me. I consider inventing some far-fangled account but, suddenly, all I can think of is that tale of the little boy whose nose got all long and spindly from fibbing. As I happen to like my nose as it is, I decide on plain and simple. “It’s a long story.”
After studying me for quite some time, he answers, “Sure looks that way. Also looks like you could use a lift.”
I nod readily. “Thanks, that’d be swell.”
“Where you heading to?”
“I’m on my way back to Corona.”
“Corona!” He throws his head back and chuckles. “Why, I hate to tell you there, but you’re heading in the wrong direction!”
You’ve got to be kidding me! Letting out an irritated howl, I kick at the clay sending a cloud of orange haze dancing around my ankles.
“Are your heels on fire?”
“Huh?” I ask, my eyes darting down to my feet. I didn’t know heels could catch on fire but, then again, I wouldn’t be surprised after all the running I’ve done.
The man lets out a long, hearty laugh. “No, I didn’t mean literally speaking. I’m asking if you’re in a hurry.”
I mull over his question for a few seconds. Considering I’m a fugitive, I’d say yes, I happen to be in quite the rush…but then again…where exactly am I going? And does it matter when I get there? In the end, I opt for a blunt, “No, sir.”
“Then you’re in luck. I’ve got a delivery to make at the US Engineer Force here in Albuquerque. If you can hold on while I do that, I’ll take you back to Corona afterward.”
“Are you sure, Mister…?”
“Clyde. The name’s Clyde. And sure, it’s no sweat.”
I’ve got to jump to get into the Jeep, which is painted in the same dark green as Mr. Clyde’s jacket. When I’m finally seated beside him, he reaches out a hand, “Nice to meet you…?”
“Robbie. Robbie Flynn.”
I miss the way Mr. Clyde’s eyes widen at the sound of my name. “Well, you look like you could use a pick-me-up, Robbie Flynn. How ‘bout a sucker?” He reaches into the glove compartment, withdrawing a fistful of miniature lollipops.
I grab a brown one, pluck off the paper and pop it into my mouth. “Ack! Something’s wrong with this lollipop!” I exclaim, sticking out my tongue. “It doesn’t taste like chocolate, at all!”
Clyde un-balls the paper. “Because it’s root beer.”
“Since when do they make root beer lollipops?”
He ignores the question.
My mind scrolls back to what I overheard at St. Joseph’s. What if what they said is true? Glancing over at the man with the army-green jacket, a lump jams its way into my throat. I know the orphanage people called in the air force, but is it possible the air force has already alerted the army about my disappearance? What if this guy next to me works for them? What if he’s not planning on taking me back to Corona at all? What if he’s taking me to that horrible air force laboratory where they’re going to prick me like a pin cushion? I shiver despite the blistering heat. I need to find a way out! And right now!
Too late. Mr. Clyde turns from the canyon-sprinkled highway and onto a long, winding road. As the Jeep slows down to a crawl, my heartrate speeds up to full throttle. So does my imagination. I clench my eyes shut and try to brace myself for what’s to come.
When the 4x4 jerks to a halt, I wrench open an eye.
Huh? The place is hardly what I’m expecting. I was imagining a high-tech structure filled with secret passageways, barricaded by high fences and patrolled by men with loaded rifles. Instead, it’s an ordinary square-shaped building sitting in the middle of a half-empty parking lot. Looks can be deceiving, I remind myself, hugging onto my knees and waiting for the impact.
Mr. Clyde scoops up the lollipop stick and paper which has fallen onto the floor. The door scrapes open. “You mind waiting in the car, Chief?” Apologetically, he adds, “Kids aren’t allowed in.”
Wait? You mean he’s not taking me inside to be prodded and probed by an army of angry militia? My voice exposes my relief as I blurt out an overzealous, “That’s alright!”
After removing a thick envelope and a large metal case from the backseat, Mr. Clyde turns to me and says, “I’ll only be a minute.”
I watch him disappear into the building and, honest to goodness, he comes back sixty seconds later. And I know, because I counted each and every one of them.
“Ok, Chief,” he says, patting me on the back, “next stop, Corona.”
Before long, tumbleweeds give way to tall, mossy mountains that sprout up from either side of the road and go on forever. They rise so high they get lost in the sprawling magenta clouds lingering overhead. Down below, beneath the setting sun, the canyons gleam like rocky flames that get snuffed out when the sun dips below the mountain’s peak.
As we drive under a rising waning crescent, muffled bands of static split through the silence. I jump. “Come in Clyde,” the voice mutters, “Do you copy?”
The man seated beside me flips a black switch on the dashboard and replies, “Affirmative. Go ahead.”
“Have the samples from Kingman been dropped off?” My ears perk up.
“Affirmative.”
“I’m going to need you to go back to Roswell to extract new samples for comparison.”
“Wilco that. Out.”
Now I’m no rocket scientist, but something tells me this is important. This is already the third time I’ve heard people mention this place, Kingman. Not to mention, at the orphanage, they said something about a flying saucer being there. This can’t be a coincidence! I want to ask what kind of samples the man on the radio was asking about, and if this has to do with the UFO. But before I can open my mouth, the car rolls to a halt cattycorner to Jake’s. “Last stop.”
Thanking Mr. Clyde, I grab my shovel, unhook the rope serving as a door, and hop out. I wait until the Jeep’s taillights disappear before plo
pping down onto the curb. Everything looks closed for the night and I have nowhere to go. First I consider trying my old house. If the owl-lady was nice enough to let me rummage around earlier, maybe she’ll give me something to eat and let me stay for the night. But then again, maybe she’ll call up Sheriff Johnson, and they’ll cart me off to that place where I’ll be pricked and probed like a lab rat. I quickly toss the idea aside.
Maybe somebody’s still inside of Jake’s, I muse, standing up and dusting off my pants. But before I can make it across the road, I’ve changed my mind. The last time I went there, I finished taking a ride in a black and white. Final destination? Saint Joseph of Cupertino’s. And we all know what happens if I get taken back there. Jake’s is out of the question.
Then it comes to me. It might be crazy, but it’s the only idea I have left. I slink the streets I’ve treaded a jillion times before, only I don’t stop at number 61. Instead, I cross the driveway and skulk up the cement steps of the blue-shuttered house next door. A light’s on in the living room! The night provides cover, but I still sneak over to the window on tiptoes.
I know Willy’s never allowed to come out after suppertime, so this might prove tricky. Still, I have to try. Peering inside, I quickly locate Mrs. Sawyer. Her head is covered in plastic rollers and she’s sitting on her rocking chair with her back turned. When I notice the yellow telephone perched under her ear, I let out a sigh of relief. Lady Luck’s on my side! When she’s on the phone, Mrs. Sawyer’s oblivious to the world.
Now all I’ve got to do is find Willy. I scan the room, but he’s not there. Not lining up his toy soldiers on top of the bookshelf, nor running them over with his steel tank. He isn’t flipping through a deck of cards, nor sitting on the loveseat in front of the telly. Actually, someone is watching TV. Only it isn’t him. The boy’s got the same red hair as Willy Sawyer, but he’s a whole lot taller and a whole lot fatter. Squinting to get a better look, I guffaw. Wait until you get a load of this! It’s the same meatball I saw Mrs. Sawyer’s sister driving off with earlier.