The Sun, the Moon, and Maybe the Trains

by Rodney Jones

  “Electric machine? Well, good for him. What’s it do?”

  “I don’t rightly know that it did anything in particular except make a little metal shaft turn. My schoolmarm once told me of it. I remember thinking it was quite something, a machine fueled by something you can’t even see. And where’s it come from?”

  “Electric? Where does it come from? And what’s the point in a machine that doesn’t do anything?”

  “Doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, he figured out a way to turn that shaft with just electric. Seems like that’s the point, don’t you reckon?”

  “But it didn’t do anything.”

  “Well, no.” I left it at that.

  We arrived to a quiet house. Everyone had gone to bed except Abigail, who was sitting in the parlor with a lamp and a book. She looked up as we entered, signaled us with a finger to her lips, then went back to her book. Paul and I crept up the creaky stairs that led to the bedrooms. He climbed into the bed where his little brother was already sleeping and I took the empty one.

  I couldn’t stop thinking of her. It was as though Tess was right there, just down the street. I’d catch myself wondering if she was thinking about me, too, if she was having the same difficulty sleeping that I was. Then I’d think, well, if she was, it wouldn’t be for another hundred and forty-four years. She haunted me, popping up a hundred times in the night. I was dead tired, but she wouldn’t let me sleep.

  It hardly seemed right that I could hear pots and pans jostling about in the kitchen below. It seemed I had only just reached a solid sleep. Robert had slipped out without me knowing. Paul was getting dressed. I climbed from bed stretching and yawning.

  “Sleep well?”

  “Slept like a log,” I said, though I wasn’t going to say what kind of log.

  Paul and I took our seats at the breakfast table. Abigail placed a large platter stacked high with pancakes next to a plate piled with bacon in the center of the table. Mr. Jacobson, to my right, had his face buried in a newspaper. Emily came in, set a cup of coffee before me, and then sat down next to me, same place as the night before. Of Paul’s three sisters, she was the slightest and the fairest… and the shyest.

  Abigail and Paul took after their father in looks and stature—low foreheads, prominent chins, and built stout as though they were meant for farm work. Mary Lou and Robert looked more like their ma with almond shaped eyes, slender noses, and slight frames. Mary Lou’s hair was dark like her pa’s and Abigail’s, whereas Mrs. Jacobson’s, Paul’s, and Robert’s hair was fair, which was not uncommon in those parts, what with all the Scandinavians who’d settled there. Mrs. Jacobson, I was told, had been born in Sweden. I couldn’t say which of her parents Emily resembled, though I could say with confidence she was the most handsome of the bunch.

  I’d finished my second helping of pancakes and was considering a third. I suspected that half the food on the table was intended for Paul and me. Emily couldn’t finish her second pancake and, unless I miscounted, I’d had six.

  “Anyone want these last two?” Mrs. Jacobson lifted the platter and held it toward me.

  “No, thank you very much, ma’am. I’ll bust if I eat another.”

  “You sure? It might be a while before your next meal.”

  “Those were some mighty fine cakes, but I’ve already eaten more than a horse’s share.”

  “Emily should be pleased to hear that; it was all her doin’.”

  I turned to Emily. “Is that so?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I don’t know as I’ve ever had better.”

  She smiled and turned pink. I noticed the dress she was wearing looked as though it’d just been made, the colors still crisp, which brought to mind something my aunt had requested of me. I turned to Mrs. Jacobson. “Ma’am, Aunt Lil asked me to bring home some fabric for a new dress. She thought I should ask you about it.”

  “Oh, she wanting something for a special occasion?”

  “For socials and such.”

  “I’ll help him,” Emily said.

  Paul looked at me as if maybe I’d had something to do with his sister offering.

  His ma glanced toward Emily, then Abigail, and then me. “You know what your aunt might be partial to?”

  “She said nothing particularly fancy or fussy, but I don’t really know what that’d be, ma’am.”

  She turned back to Abigail. “Well, why don’t you go with John and your brother and give him a hand with that?”

  “But, Ma, it was me that offered,” Emily said.

  “It was I who offered, and you can offer to help with these dishes, and then you gotta be gettin’ off to school.”

  As the three of us were leaving for the store, Mrs. Jacobson once again made it clear I was welcome to stay in their home on future visits to Rutland. I felt as much a part of that family as I did my own.

  “Here, John.” She handed me a small cloth bundle. “A little something to keep you on the drive home.”

  “I certainly appreciate it, ma’am.”

  Abigail seemed to take pleasure in helping me with my purchases. She selected a navy blue fabric that had a print of tiny blue moons and pink flowers. I thought it was a curious choice, but didn’t say so. She included some pink ribbon, blue thread, and pink buttons, and a paper pattern, which apparently was something new. She pointed out the illustration of what the dress would eventually be on the pattern envelope. It didn’t look much like those I’d seen my aunt wear, but I figured she could, and likely would, make something else if she didn’t care for it. I hauled a couple of crates of goods to the wagon, said my goodbyes to Abigail, and then had a few last words with Paul before climbing up into the wagon.

  “I hope whatever it is that’s bothering you gets sorted out,” he said.

  I gave him a one-eyed squint. “What in the devil are you talking about?”

  “You’ve been somewhere else since you got here, John, if you don’t mind my saying. I trust it ain’t my sister. You’d let me know if I was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

  “You’ve got some real fine sisters, Paul, but I ain’t looking to get hitched anytime soon.”

  “That shouldn’t stop a man from planning for the day, though.” He grinned.

  “I can’t say as I’m doing either. I reckon you’re imagining about something being on my mind.”

  “Well, you’d be the one to know. But if ever there was something, you can rest assured it wouldn’t go beyond my ear. I don’t care what it is.”

  “I know that, Paul.”

  “You take care and take our good wishes to your aunt and uncle.”

  It wasn’t but the smallest of lies, but I believed that once a fellow deceived a good friend in the way I did, it became a little easier to do again. Maybe next time, it would be something a wee bit bigger. Whether I was suspected of deceit or not didn’t matter. I’d broken that bond of trust either way. I had an idea, even before leaving 2009, that that was how it’d be, but didn’t realize the finer ramifications until I left Rutland that day. Was I choosing the lesser of two evils? I thought I was.

  I headed up the hill going east out of town and then turned south on Main Street, which would become Rutland Road farther on. There were only a few farms out that way beyond the Railroad House Inn, the last of Rutland, heading south out of town. The night Tess and I had come through there, it was all concrete and glass—one store after another. I passed three wagons and a half-dozen folk on horseback between Rutland and Wallingford on that same busy stretch of road. The roads in my day were, of course, unpaved—not even gravel, just dirt and often deeply rutted. The road into Wallingford was the dustiest of them all.

  As I neared Wallingford, I stopped alongside the road, the same place I nearly stopped while coming, where the lane going up to Tess’s house would someday intersect the main road. I considered walking up into the woods to see if I could find any evidence it had really happened. I knew it had, but a doubt was there somewhere, trying to get a purchase. I would’ve l
iked to have seen something at my end of it—maybe that stone outcropping I sat on just days before or the place I camped, the place where Tess and I had shared a fire.

  Then, all of a sudden, I remembered. I stood up in the wagon and reached down into the deep pocket of my trousers. Instead of the coins I’d normally find, my fingers came upon a small cylinder. I lifted it out. A tingle traveled up my spine and then spread across my scalp. A beautiful shiny blue… I’d completely forgotten about it.

  How could I be holding a gift from a gal who didn’t exist? But there it was. I sat down, laid the flashlight next to me, then reached down below the seat for the bundle Mrs. Jacobson had given me that morning: four hardboiled eggs, a few slices of bacon, and those last two pancakes. I ate half of it, saving the rest for later, then picked up the flashlight again and held it out before me, turning it in my hand, studying every little detail. Being removed from its natural context, it seemed all the more amazing. I knew I’d have to hide it once I got home. The smart thing would’ve been burying it out in the woods, but I liked having it near at hand too much to do that.

  As I continued down the road, the flashlight and the events tied to it drifted through my mind like a sweet fragrance. I mused over my last night there. I might as well have been there rather than in the driver’s seat of that wagon as little attention as I was giving to the road. In my head I was back there walking through the dark woods with Tess. At some point, she stepped ahead of me. My eyes drifted down to her bare legs… lit by the same flashlight…

  “Fine day.” An old fellow on a black horse came up alongside me as he was passing.

  I jumped. My head swung left, and then my entire face bloomed with heat, as if I’d just been caught with my fingers in the cookie jar.

  “Yes, sir.” I glanced up, so I’d know better what I was talking about. “It is; it’s a fine day, all right.” My response felt thin and wispy, like a curl of smoke.

  “Headed for Danby, are you?”

  “Greendale, sir. John Bartley’s my name.” I gave him a nod.

  “Matthew Spears.” He gave a quick glance over his shoulder toward the back of the wagon. “Greendale. That’s quite a drive, ain’t it?”

  “I don’t mind it much.”

  “Well, I wish you a good day.”

  The man tipped his hat. As he rode on ahead, it came to me that folks in Tess’s time didn’t do that. No one acknowledged anyone’s presence. How could they, with everyone zipping by at seventy miles per hour?

  Nearly five hours later, I came upon the place it had all started, the place I had last seen Tess. The sound of her voice calling played lightly at the edge of my mind. I pulled the flashlight from my pocket and again looked at it. Nothing made sense to me. I went around and around with it, but couldn’t get it square in my mind. Was I in 1875, and Tess in 2009? Was all of time—all the years, past, present, and future—taking up the same space somehow, all of it right there? I looked to my right, as though I might find a clue among the trees. How else could I explain it—me, a fellow from the nineteenth century, being there with Tess, a gal from the twenty-first? She had my coins, and I had her flashlight. I was in 1875, standing among familiar trees, breathing the air of my century, and yet I had clearly heard Tess calling to me from 2009.

  I parked the wagon under the lean-to, unhitched the two horses, led them to the barn, then carried the crate of goods from the back of the wagon to the house. I could smell fried chicken and biscuits before even reaching the door. I was home. I had done all I’d set out to do and was back in time for Friday supper. Everything was right and easy again. I could hear the chicken sizzling on the stove as I entered the dining room.

  Aunt Lil was setting the table. “I was about to send the dogs after you.”

  “We don’t have dogs, ma’am.”

  “Well, the chickens, then.”

  I chuckled. “Smells like we might have one less of them.”

  “Any news from Rutland?”

  “Nothing worth mentioning.”

  “You see Paul any?”

  “I suppered with the Jacobsons last evening. Mrs. Jacobson insisted, and insisted, too, that I spend the night there. So I did.”

  “Seems to me that’s worth a mention.”

  “Need help with anything?”

  “You want to go tell your uncle it’s near ready?”

  The conversation over supper centered mostly around Zach Heming’s plans for a house. His pa owned land upstream from us that bordered the river on the backside, with the road to the front. The Watkins from Weston were having a barn dance the coming Saturday to help organize a house-raising for Zach and his bride.

  “Ol’ Mr. Heming was asking me if I could spare some of your time come harvest. Zach’s going to be real busy getting his place situated, having winter breathing down his neck and all.”

  “You told him yes?”

  “I reckon I did. He’s offering a bit of silver. I figured that’d interest you some. Time is coming, John, that you’re going to be looking at starting a family, if I’m not mistaken. It’d be a good idea having something saved up.”

  Come nighttime, my mood took a shift toward poor. I climbed into bed, feeling uncertain about everything. I was thinking about my brother, J.W. He was nineteen when he married. Zach was not quite two years older than I was. I’d never even thought about that business of getting married. Who would I marry? I could think of a dozen or so gals who were coming of age. Zach’s younger sister, Martha, was among them. Not much to look at, but I supposed a man would get used to that in time. Sallie Mosier was a bit more on the pretty side, but then if it was pretty I was after, I’d be setting my sight on Zella Shaw. Of all the gals I knew, she was the handsomest.

  Tess…

  As soon as she entered my mind, I could think of no one else. I went back to those last hours with her and felt a pang of regret at my telling her she was disrespectful—and me being her guest, for whom she was doing everything she could to help. Did I really thank her properly? I had given her the coins. But I believed I had come out on the better end of that deal; she had given me the flashlight.

  Hypocrite… judgmental… why would she say such things? Was my pointing out her lack of respect judgmental? I reckoned one might see it that way, as she did. But it was just a different point of view, and it didn’t make her right, only different… though, significantly different. It made perfect sense that she would be, I supposed. Perhaps I had no business calling this right and that wrong in a world I knew nothing of.

  I found myself wishing I could go back and properly thank her, and apologize, too. I thought about her being up there on the mountain alone, and then worried afresh about her making it safely home. What was I thinking, abandoning her like that? I’d never know if she was all right or not—the sweetest gal, walking alone up there the whole day because of me.

  chapter thirteen

  “WHAT THE DEVIL WERE YOU doing? You didn’t feel that? Dang it, John! We might well have some serious breakage here!”

  My uncle could see what I was doing, so I knew he wasn’t expecting an answer. It only would’ve made him madder if I was to say what was obvious. Truth be told, I’d gotten lazy and let my mind drift where it wanted, where it shouldn’t have been.

  We were in the mill. I was moving last year’s corn from the clean bin to the bucket leg, thinking, of all things, about mistakes when my uncle came barreling by, yelling something about the sluice gate. I noticed it then—a dull thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. I was closest to the gate and should’ve had it dropped before my uncle could slide down from the hopper to do it himself. Once it was shut, the water wheel and everything it was connected to came to a grinding halt. It was quiet for a moment, and then there came my uncle storming back, fit to be tied.

  I followed him down the steps to the lower floor, where the drive shaft entered the building. It was clear, right off, what’d happened. The wallower, the smaller of the two main gears, had three broken cogs with two more
appearing cracked. I’d rarely heard my uncle cuss as he did just then. We kept spare parts such as gear cogs on hand, enough to replace half the wallower if ever necessary. But whatever we’d use of the spares would be promptly replaced. They’d have to be turned over in Ludlow, where they had a proper lathe.

  So, yeah, my uncle had cause to be all-fired, asking me the same thing, “You didn’t feel that bangin’ around down here?” And asking where my head was.

  Where was my head? Up the mountain there with Tess, thinking what a mistake I’d made letting her come along. I told my uncle I was just shoveling corn and swore I didn’t feel the thumping. That didn’t satisfy him, nor did my being sorry about it.

  The next day, a little before lunch, my uncle had me open the sluice gate. The wheel was again turning, back to the usual routine, except I was still feeling sheepish about the whole thing. My uncle was in the head house, moving wheat from the bucket leg to the hopper. I resumed the same job I had the day before, except I moved wheat instead of corn.

  The following day, I was sent to Ludlow to have the new gear cogs turned. Uncle Ed liked to have a full count on hand should there ever come a time an entire gear was sheared. It’d happened twice in the years I helped at the mill. The first time was my fault—a fact made abundantly clear to me—but the other time, the Snyder boy, Mark, was goofing around in there as Mr. Snyder was talking to my uncle. He got his hand caught in the bucket leg chain. Everybody heard him scream. I made a dash for the sluice gate, but just before I got there, my uncle had clamped a break bar on the main shaft, which stopped it turning, but not the drive shaft. That sheared all twenty cogs on the wallower and cracked a few on the pit wheel, as well. From then on, Mark had three fingers less on his right hand than he had been born with.

  I started off for Ludlow early in the morning, as I didn’t want to be spending the night in the woods. However, it could be that I’d show up at the shop with the job, and they’d not get to it right off. Then, I’d be spending the night regardless of my departure time.