Memories of Another Day

by Harold Robbins

  But she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were on Daniel.

  “I’ll be waiting outside, Daniel,” Roscoe said with a gentle understanding, and went out the front door.

  They stood there silently for a long while just looking at each other. Finally she let out a deep breath. “Are you going to Detroit with him?”

  He shook his head. “I’m goin’ home. The train kin leave me off at Turner’s Pass. That’s on’y eight miles from our place.”

  “And after that?”

  “I don’ know,” he said.

  “Will you be coming back?” Her heart was aching.

  He looked into her eyes. “I don’ think so, Miss Andrews.”

  Her eyes began to fill with tears. “Just for now, Daniel, for this time, please call me Sarah.”

  He hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yes—Sarah.”

  She went into his arms and placed her head against his chest. “Will I ever see you again?” she whispered.

  He held her gently without answering.

  She looked up into his face. “Daniel, do you love me? Just a little?”

  He looked down into her eyes. “Yes,” he answered. “Jes’ how much I don’ know. It’s the fus’ time I ever loved a girl.”

  “Don’t forget me, Daniel,” she wept. “Don’t forget me.”

  “How can I?” he answered. “I’ll never forget you. I owe you so much.”

  She held him tightly; and later, when he was gone and she was alone in her bed and she heard the train whistle at midnight, she turned her face into the pillow and could still feel his arms around her.

  “I loved you, Daniel,” she wept, saying the words she had never never been able to bring herself to say to him. “Oh, God, you’ll never know how much I loved you.”

  Chapter 20

  The locomotive dragging the twenty-two coal cars laboriously puffed its way up the grade toward Turner’s Pass shortly after eight o’clock in the morning. There had been only eight coal cars when Daniel and Roscoe had boarded, but stops had been made at three more mines along the way. The small caboose swayed gently at the rear of the train.

  The brakeman stuck his head out the window, then pulled it back inside. “We’re comin’ up on Turner’s Pass, Daniel.”

  Daniel got to his feet. “Thank you for the courtesy, Mr. Small.”

  “Anytime, Daniel,” the trainman said, smiling.

  Daniel turned to Roscoe. “Good luck, Mr. Craig. I hope ever’thin’ works out fer you.”

  Roscoe held out his hand. “Good luck to you, Dan’l.”

  Daniel nodded. He started for the door at the rear of the caboose. Roscoe called him. Daniel turned.

  The older man spoke awkwardly. “You’re the on’y one left, Dan’l. I don’ think yer father would want anything to happen to you.”

  Daniel looked at him silently.

  “What I mean,” Roscoe added, “if anythin’ happens to you, then all your father’s life would of meant nothin’.”

  Daniel nodded. “I’ll think on it, Mr. Craig.”

  “She’s slowin’ down,” the brakeman said. “You better git movin’, Dan’l.”

  Daniel went out onto the tiny platform and waited on the bottom step as the train slowed to a crawl. Roscoe and the brakeman came out onto the platform. Daniel jumped, ran a few steps, slid down the embankment beside the tracks, then scrambled to his feet, waving his hand to let them know he was all right. They waved back, and the train began to pick up momentum again. A few minutes later it disappeared into the curve, and Daniel began walking through the hills toward home.

  He found the old paths as if he had never been away. This was where he had grown up, and he knew the land like the back of his hand. He remembered when he was little and his father had taken him hunting for the first time. How proud he had been when he brought home a rabbit for the pot.

  Engrossed as he was with memories, the two hours it took to walk the eight miles to his house seemed only as many minutes, so he wasn’t prepared for the shock when he came out onto the road where the house had once stood.

  He froze. It was reduced to a charred shell, only the frame and the chimney still intact. In the morning sun, the air seemed to shiver over the remains of the house. Behind it the barn stood, untouched, empty of life. He drew a deep breath and forced himself to walk into what had been the front yard.

  There was a heavy sound behind him. He whirled quickly. The mule came out of the brush on the other side of the road. His big round eyes looked at Daniel questioningly.

  The mule was the first to move. He came across the road to Daniel and nudged at him with his nose. Daniel stepped to one side, and the mule continued through the yard into the barn.

  Daniel followed him. The mule had his nose buried in the hay. Daniel looked into the trough. It was dry. He went back into the yard to the well. The big water bucket still hung there on the pump nozzle. He began pushing the pump handle. It took some moments for the water to come gushing up and fill the pail. Daniel carried it back to the trough.

  The mule raised his head and watched him. Slowly, Daniel emptied the water into the trough. Still munching bits of hay, the mule approached the trough. He looked down at it for a moment, then up at Daniel.

  Daniel nodded. “Yes, stupid mule, that’s how water gits there. Drink up.”

  The mule seemed almost to be smiling as he cleaned his teeth of the hay. Then he put his muzzle delicately into the water and began to drink. Daniel turned away.

  Without looking at the house again, he walked up the side of the small hill to the cemetery. He looked down at the graves, the earth still black and new over them. He took off his hat and stood bareheaded in the sun. He had never been to a funeral, so he did not know the right prayer to say. The only one he could remember was the one his mother had taught him when he was a little child. His lips moved softly.

  “Now I lay me down to sleep.

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

  If I should die before I wake,

  I pray the Lord my soul to take.

  God bless Maw; God bless Paw;

  God bless my sisters and brothers…”

  His voice faded away, and for the first time the tears came to his eyes, blurring the graves. He stood without moving, the tears running down his cheeks. After a while the tears stopped, but he remained, the graves and the small wooden crosses burning their way into his brain, the loss and hurt and emptiness draining his soul. Then suddenly it was over. The pain stopped. He closed his eyes for a long moment. He knew what he had to do.

  Without looking back, he left the small cemetery and went up the path to the hill. He came around the small turn and there it was, as it always had been. His father’s still—the small shed, the copper tubing, the stone jugs. It was as if nothing had happened.

  He opened the door of the shed and went inside. It was dark, and very little light came in through the door. He reached up to the top shelf and found what he had come for. He searched again with his fingers and found the small box that he knew would be next to it. He took the tarpaulin-wrapped double-barreled 20-gauge shotgun and the box of shells into the sunlight. Quickly, he stripped away the tarpaulin. The gun was clean and shining. He cocked both hammers and pulled the triggers. They clicked in cleanly, the hammers snapping into the firing pin sharply. His father had always insisted on keeping his guns clean and in working order. He opened the box of shells. It was almost full.

  He laid them down on a wooden bench and went back into the shed. This time he came out with a steel cutting saw and a file. Carefully he locked the shotgun into the vise on the workbench and slowly began to cut the barrel of the shotgun down to about a quarter of its length. When that was done, he filed the edges smooth, then wiped it clean with a lightly oiled rag. With another rag he removed the remaining traces of oil, and took the gun from the vise. He hefted the gun and looked at it. The whole gun, including the wooden stock, was now less than two feet long.

  He put the gun down on the
bench, picked up two stone jugs and set them up on the fence in the sunlight. He continued until he had ten jugs sitting about two feet apart on the fence. He picked up the shotgun and placed a shell in each chamber.

  He turned and measured the distance from the fence with his eye. About five feet. Just right. Holding the shotgun waist high, braced against his hip, he pulled both triggers. The kick spun him halfway around, and the noise seemed to shatter his ears. He turned back to check his target. He had missed completely. The jug at which he had been aiming was still untouched.

  He went over to the fence, his eyes searching the tree behind it for traces of the buckshot. He found it. High and to the left and widely scattered. The tree was a few feet behind the target, which meant that he would have to move in closer for the gun to be effective. He moved deliberately. There was no rush. He had all afternoon.

  By the time he was satisfied, he had used all the cartridges but four. Of these two went into the gun and two went into his pocket.

  The sun was beginning its descent into the west as he went down the path. He went by the cemetery without stopping and right to the barn. The mule was standing contentedly in his stall.

  He took a bridle and reins from a peg on the barn wall and approached the mule. The animal watched him warily.

  “C’mon, mule,” Daniel said. “It’s time you earned your keep.”

  ***

  Jackson began sweeping the wooden walk in front of Fitch’s store at seven o’clock that morning. He paid no attention to the man who was sitting on the bench in the square across the street. He seemed just another farmer, catching a snooze, his hat pulled down over his eyes to keep out the morning light. Even the old mule tied to a nearby tree was not worth a second glance.

  A little while later, Harry, the fussy chief clerk, came to the store and began setting up the doorway displays. He had just finished his work when Mr. Fitch arrived. Harry stole a glance at the big clock in the back of the store. Eight o’clock. Exactly on time.

  Mr. Fitch was in a good mood. “Everything all right, Harry?”

  The little clerk bobbed up and down. “Yes, Mr. Fitch. Everything’s just fine.”

  Mr. Fitch chuckled and went past him into the store. Harry followed him. “We have those new canned beans, Mr. Fitch. Do you want me to put them on sale?”

  Fitch stopped for a moment, then nodded.

  “How much, Mr. Fitch?”

  “Three fer a dime, Harry. That’s cheap enough an’ still a good profit. They on’y cost us two cents apiece.”

  “I’ll take care of it right away, Mr. Fitch,” Harry said. Fitch continued on to his office in the back of the store as Harry yelled for Jackson to bring the canned beans up from the cellar.

  Across the street, the man rose from the bench. He looked up and down the street for a moment. There weren’t too many people about. Slowly he crossed the street to the store, his arms hugging his jacket close around him, his hat still low over his eyes. He entered the store.

  Harry popped up from behind the counter. “Anything I can do for you, sir?”

  The farmer didn’t look at him. “Mr. Fitch aroun’?”

  “He’s in his office in the back.”

  “Thank you,” the man said politely. He was already moving away as he spoke. He disappeared behind a stack of wooden crates near the office door.

  Sam Fitch, seated behind his desk, looked up as the man came in. “Mornin’, frien’,” he said in his customer voice. “Kin I be of he’p?”

  The man stopped in front of the desk. He pushed the hat up from his face to the back of his head. His voice was emotionless. “I guess you kin.”

  Sam Fitch’s face paled. “Dan’l!”

  Daniel was silent.

  “I di’n’ recognize you, boy. You growed so big,” Fitch said.

  Daniel looked at him steadily. “Why did you do it, Mr. Fitch?”

  “Do what?” Fitch tried to act bewildered. “I don’ know what you’re talkin’ ’bout.”

  Daniel’s eyes were cold. “I think you do, Mr. Fitch. What did we ever do to you to make you kill all of ’em?”

  “I still don’ know what you’re talkin’ ’bout,” Fitch insisted.

  “Roscoe Craig was there, hidin’ in the barn, ’n’ he saw all of it. He tol’ me.” Daniel’s voice was still emotionless.

  Fitch stared at him. He abandoned pretense but not lies. “It was an accident, Dan’l. You got to believe me. We never intended to start no fire.”

  “You never intended to kill my paw neither, did you? You on’y give the signal to shoot when he come outta the house.”

  “I was tryin’ to stop ’em. That’s what I was tryin’ to do. Stop ’em.” Fitch’s eyes widened as Daniel’s coat swung open and the sawed-off shotgun came into view. He kept on talking as he slid open a drawer of his desk and reached for the gun inside. “I tried to stop ’em. But they wouldn’ listen to me. They was crazy.”

  “You’re lyin’, Mr. Fitch.” Daniel’s voice was flat and final.

  Fitch had his hand on the gun now. Moving quickly for a man his size, he pulled out the gun and jumped sideways from his chair in front of the glass windows separating his office from the store. But he didn’t move quickly enough.

  The roar of both barrels was like a thunderclap in the tiny office. Fitch’s body was torn apart from chest to belly as the shot propelled him backward through the glass partition. His blood and insides spattered the wooden crates as they fell around him.

  Slowly Daniel walked over and looked down at the broken body of Sam Fitch. He was still standing like that when the sheriff, followed by a deputy, came rushing into the store.

  The sheriff took one quick look at Sam Fitch, then moved his eyes up to Daniel. He put his own gun back in its holster. He held out a hand to Daniel. “I think you better give me that there gun, Dan’l,” he said.

  Daniel raised his eyes from Sam Fitch’s body. “Sher’f,” he said, “he kilt my whole fam’ly.”

  “Give me the gun, Daniel,” the sheriff repeated gently.

  Daniel nodded slowly. “Yes, sir.”

  The sheriff took the gun and handed it to his deputy. “Come, Dan’l.”

  Daniel came out of the office and stopped to look down at Sam Fitch once again. When he raised his head to look at the sheriff, there was a strange agony in his eyes. “Sher’f,” he asked in a hurt voice, “wasn’t there nobody in this whole town to stop ’im?”

  ***

  The judge looked down from his bench. Daniel stood silently before him in the almost empty courtroom. “Daniel Boone Huggins,” the judge said solemnly. “In view of the extenuating circumstances, the death of your family and your extreme youth, and in the hope that the death and violence which have plagued this county the past year have finally come to an end, it is the considered judgment of this court that you be sent to the State Correctional Institute for Boys for a period of two years or until you reach the age of eighteen, whichever is sooner. It is the further hope of this court that you will apply yourself diligently to learning a trade and taking advantage of the many opportunities you will find there to become a useful member of society.”

  He rapped his gavel twice on the bench and rose to his feet. “The court is now closed.” He started down from the platform as the sheriff came toward Daniel.

  The sheriff took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. “I’m sorry, Dan’l,” the sheriff said. “The law says I got to use these on sentenced prisoners.”

  Daniel looked at him, then silently held out his hands. The handcuffs clicked and locked around his wrists.

  The sheriff looked at him. “You ain’t angry, are you, Dan’l?”

  Daniel shook his head. “No, Sher’f. Why should I be? It’s over. Now, mebbe, I kin fergit it.”

  But he never did.

  Now

  The air brakes hissed as the big trailer truck pulled to the side of the highway. The door swung open and the driver stared at us as I got out of the cab. I held up my ha
nd to help Anne down.

  “You kids are crazy,” the driver said. “Gittin’ off in the middle o’ nowhere. It’s thirty-five miles down the road to Fitchville an’ fifty miles back to the next town. An’ nothin’ in between except maybe some sharecroppers.”

  Anne swung out of the cab. I picked up the backpacks. “Thanks for the lift,” I said.

  He stared at me. “Okay. But be careful. These people ain’t exactly friendly toward strangers. Sometimes they shoot before they ask questions.”

  “We’ll be all right,” I said.

  He nodded and closed the door. We watched the truck pick up speed, and in a moment it was lost in the highway traffic. I turned to Anne. She hadn’t spoken until now.

  “Do you know where we’re going?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  Her voice turned sarcastic. “Mind telling me?”

  I let my eyes scan the countryside, then pointed at a small hill rising above the trees about a mile from the road. “There.”

  She looked at the hill, then back at me. “Why?”

  “I’ll know when I get there,” I said. I scrambled down the side of the embankment from the highway. When I looked back she was still standing there, staring down at me. “Coming?”

  She nodded and started down after me. About halfway, she slipped. I caught her and she came to a stop, her head against my chest. She was trembling. After a moment, she looked up into my face. “I’m frightened.”

  I looked into her eyes. “Don’t be,” I said. “You’re with me.”

  It took us almost two hours to reach the crest of the hill, another half-hour to the knoll about a quarter of the way down the other side. I dropped my backpack and sat on the ground. I took a deep breath, then, on my knees, began to feel the earth under the tall wild grass.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Looking for something,” I said, and at the same moment my hand hit a stone. Carefully I felt it. Rectangular in shape, the upper surface slanting slightly toward me. Quickly I pulled the grass and weeds from around it. It was a block of stone no more than two feet long and a foot wide. With my hand I brushed away the earth and dirt covering it until the letters etched into the stone were clear and sharp.