by Carolyn Bond
He did, and again they briefly locked eyes. He pressed his lips together and turned his back to her as he strode into the store. His brush off left her feeling like she had swallowed sour milk, so she kept moving down the stone walkway. It’s not like she was looking for a date, but that was not the response she expected. The startling rush of heat surprised her. He was entirely appealing with a genteel beauty and gentleman courtesy toward the shoppers. He charmed them and she felt it, too. However, the class difference was real and apparently not to be overcome. She shrugged it off and tried to ignore her jangled emotions. It was rare that man affected her like that and it bothered her. She never wanted to be a slave to lust.
Near the end of the town, before the railroad tracks intersected Main Street and veered to the left away from the river, Lily saw a sign that said, “Cedar Hill Cemetery” with an arrow pointing toward a dirt road. Her heart leapt at the familiar sight.
Being distracted as she was, she didn’t see a group of teenagers on the other side of the tracks smoking cigarettes. They saw her immediately and started whispering to each other. A tall lanky young man straightened and patted down his shirt, checking to make sure it was tucked in. He tossed the half-smoked cigarette into the bushes and winked at the young man next to him.
“Miss? Miss? Can I help you?” he asked as he approached.
Lily turned and looked him up and down and then noticed his friends back on the side of the tracks. “No. I don’t need any help.” She tried to sound stern.
He smiled an oily grin and stepped closer. “Now, miss. Surely you ain’t out and about alone? Something could happen.” He stood very still like a tiger ready to strike.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “Leave me alone!” She turned and headed up the dirt road to the cemetery. Her error struck her immediately. She was now moving farther away from town and people. The road turned a corner and bushes obstructed the view. She sucked in a breath. If she turned around, she would head right back into the group of boys but if she kept going she would be even more alone.
In the split second she tried to figure out what to do, it was decided for her. The group of four boys casually walked up behind her. The tall lanky boy was on her in a flash holding her around the waist with an iron grip. For such a young man, he was as strong as a python.
His mouth was on her ear as he breathed in. “Oh my, miss, but you do smell nice.”
“Let me go!” she yelled and tried to stomp on his foot. If she could just remember the self-defense moves she had learned once.
The other boys laughed a low growling chuckle and one said, “Save some for me now! Don’t get her all dirty before I get my chance!”
Horror struck her. This was a nightmare. She wasn’t that far from town, just fifty yards maybe. It was broad daylight.
She had to alert someone. If she could just get someone’s attention, maybe they would run. The lanky boy was now hiking up her skirt and running his calloused hand up her thigh. In a surge of primal provocation, she made a fist and jerked her right elbow back with all the force she had. It worked. She made contact with his ribs and he jerked at the pain, momentarily letting go of her. She picked up her skirts and put her Nike running shoes to the test. A train whistled and the breath left her. It was a few yards away on the track. Pulling out her high school track team moves, she did a running long jump just as it curved around the edge of town. The boys had been chasing her but were cut off by the train. She turned as the train passed, panting, and saw her attackers were blocked. She darted into the post office to hide.
Hiding out of view, she watched the train pass and her assailants search Main Street with their eyes for her. The tall boy rubbed his rib cage. She knew it could only be a bruise. She wasn’t strong enough to break a bone. One of them made a face and slugged him in the shoulder. He gestured back with his hands and the group of them made their way up the tracks in the direction the train came from.
She waited a good fifteen minutes and then cautiously darted back up the road to the cemetery. It made no sense, but the only safe place she could think of was with her grandma. She just wanted to feel her grandma’s presence.
She ran up the one-lane dirt path that wound up the steep hill. She was gasping for air by the time she got to the cemetery. She wished she could rip the corset right out from under her dress. Standing finally without gasping for breath, she scanned the rising hillside just past the sign.
It looked altogether different. There were headstones to the right of the road that passed through the arched sign. They looked vaguely familiar. There were no other headstones. She glanced to where her grandmother should be buried. Nothing there. It was just a gentle rolling slope of grass. She jogged under the arched entrance and up the hill to the height of Cedar Hill. From here the cemetery should continue downward in the direction of the Ohio River for about fifty more yards. Through the leafless trees, she could make out the silent movement of the river current as it slinked its way to the west. There were no graves back here though. The only graves were in the front and on the right side.
Tracing the landscape in her mind, she made her way to the virgin ground where her grandmother would someday be buried. A small seedling had pushed its way through the tall grass and had a good start before hibernating for winter. She fell to her knees and caressed its twig-like trunk. Was this the same tree? Had time wound backward so far that towering trees were seedlings and cemeteries were nearly barren? It was true then. She really had traveled back in time. How, she had no idea. She thought back to when she met Even at the creek. What happened before then? Rubbing her temples, she remembered the jolt that sent her flying. Pressing her mind backward, she felt the jolt when her wheel hit the curb. Then there was nothing for too long. Like time stopped.
There was no answer. Then she remembered the ringing sound and blacking out on the creek side. Other than not paying attention to the road, she couldn’t think of anything she had done. Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe someone else did this and she was a part of their plan. She glanced back to the untouched earth of her grandmother’s grave.
Was she to blame for this? Had her grandmother done this? Would it be possible?
She didn’t feel her grandmother’s spirit here like she did before. Of course that would make sense. Her grandmother hadn’t been born, yet.
“What am I supposed to do now?” she yelled.
She couldn’t decide if she was yelling at her grandmother or God. She finally decided it must have been God. After all, her grandmother didn’t exist, yet. Tears sprang to her eyes and she dashed them away angrily.
“Only you, God, could bend time. This must be your will!” She spat out, “Well I don’t like it. Take me home!”
With legs pulled up, she clasped her arms and hugged her knees and cried with everything in her. The rushing of her pulse in her ears blocked all sound. She felt utterly alone. At least before she could come to her grandmother’s grave and have her one-way conversations. Now, even that was gone.
When all the grief had poured out of her and all that was left was numbness, she looked up over her clasped wrists. Evan sat cross-legged in front of her waiting. He watched her without saying a word. A sad but serious demeanor held his expression.
“Are you done cursing God, lass? Looks like he whooped you pretty good for it.”
She stared at him trying to figure out what he meant. He chuckled at her and stood up, offering his hand to help her up. She stared at it.
What was he doing here? Did he follow her? She looked into his warm eyes and felt safe. He seemed to genuinely care about her. Surely he must think she is crazy. Especially if he heard her conversation with God. She took his hand finally, and let him pull her to her feet.
“Did you follow me?”
“Bettie and I thought you’d been gone a while and went looking for you. When we couldn’t find you, we got worried. I ran into town just in time to see you heading up here.”
She imagined him and Bet
tie searching the house. Why would they care that a stranger disappeared? She meant nothing to them.
“I see,” she said distantly. “But Evan, why did you bother? You don’t know me. In fact, you probably think I’m crazy.”
He looked down at his feet and chuckled again. When he looked back in her eyes, she felt like she could see straight into his soul. His eyes weren’t flat, but rather like staring into history playing out in front of you with emotions swirling through it.
“Miss Wallingsford, I bothered because I cannot bear to see you hurt. You have no one to care for you. At least, I suppose, until we find your people.”
“I don’t need anyone caring for me! I’m not a child.”
He let out a heavy breath of frustration, “Nay, miss, I can see with my own eyes you’re no’ a child. You must be careful, though.”
She furrowed her brows.
“Surely, you won’t argue with me about guarding your virtue!”
She didn’t see how her virtue was in any jeopardy. Then, the cat calls from the man leaving the saloon echoed in her ear. Perhaps he was right. They thought about things differently here. The notion of a prim 1950s school girl reputation was not what he was talking about. This was more a matter of being assaulted and then having people say it was your own fault. If you had no one to protect you, in their eyes, it was your own fault.
She inhaled and released it slowly in resignation. Seeing it through his eyes, he wasn’t treating her like a child. He was protecting her from opportunists.
“Thank you, Evan. That was kind of you.”
He shifted his weight and stood a bit straighter, accepting her compliment. “But, Miss Wallingsford, it’s not that I don’t like it, but it’s not proper for you to call me by my given name. People will talk. Perhaps that is different where you come from, then.”
“Ah. No. You’re right, Mr. McEwen. Pardon me,” she paused, “familiarity.”
His lips stretched into a flirty smirk, “Perhaps one day, you’ll find me familiar enough to resume. I can only hope.”
Heat engulfed her face and her arms and legs felt like disjointed and stiff as she walked. To break the awkwardness, she tried to think of conversation.
“Mr. McEwen, is Stephensport a dangerous town for women?”
“Not especially. However, with the river and the train, there is a fair amount of people passing through. It would be wise to be prudent. A lass as yourself would do well not to go about unchaperoned. If for no other reason than just to keep away uninvited unpleasantness.”
“I see.”
Before they turned the corner to Main Street, he stopped as though he’d forgotten something, “Miss Wallingsford, not that I was trying to eavesdrop on your, um, conversation with God, but what did you mean about God bending time?”
Fear caught her. Surely she couldn’t tell him the truth. He would think she was crazy. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. I heard you plain as day.” The wind picked up the dry brown leaves on the ground and swirled them around their feet. “I ask because, where I come from, witches are nothing to mess with.”
The laugh burst out before she could stop it, “Me! A witch? Mercy, no!”
“Then what, pray tell, were you discussing with the Almighty?”
“Don’t you think that is rather my business?”
“Certainly. However, if you are going to be bring all sorts of spooks and haunts on Mrs. Black’s house, then I have a right to ask.”
She tried to think of what to say, “Mr. McEwen, something happened to me. I didn’t cause it. I don’t know what did. I can’t explain it. I will tell you, since you have been kind to me and offered me your protection, I am not from here. I am from far away. I am not even sure if I can ever get back.”
He took her hand in his and pulled it to his soft warm lips. A surge of energy twisted her insides in a most delicious way.
After a brief kiss on her knuckles, he said, “That makes two of us then. I certainly won’t hold that against you.”
She felt such peace because he was so easy to be with. He accepted her vague answer and didn’t pressure her. What’s more, he identified with her. He held out his arm as an invitation and she took it, looping her hand under his bicep and over his forearm. No man her age had ever offered his arm like this. Maybe as they walked into prom in high school, but never as a man would offer his protection. As she looked down the length of Main Street stretched out before them, she felt like the whole world fell away and knelt down before her. She felt like royalty, riding on Evan McEwen’s coattails.
Her moment of majesty crashed as quickly as it came, though, when she saw the look on the face of the man in the Fine Clothes Mercantile. It didn’t matter what year it was because the look meant the same thing in any time. She hadn’t noticed the hook shape of his nose before. It was much easier to see now that he was staring down it at them with half-closed lids. She could feel an itchy filthiness creep up her arms in reaction to his scowl.
Evan whispered under his breath, “Pay him no mind, Miss Wallingsford. His house is of glass, made by his own hands. It must tire him to be without fault all the time.”
Her mouth still puckered in confusion over the school-boy display of snobbery, she nodded and turned her eyes toward the small church to their right. A girl who could not have been a day over fourteen slammed the door and stomped down the steps. Lily had seen that look before. It was exasperation. She had seen it on the faces of her friends who worked in the schools. It was the pent up rage and fatigue of someone who had given their whole heart and gotten a slap on the face. It happened frequently to teachers.
The girl hurried down the walk and disappeared around a corner, passing a small wood sign identifying the church as the “Stephensport Common School.” A tickle of intrigue piqued her interest. How could that girl have been a teacher? She was too young.
Evan turned the corner and the bustle of Main Street faded behind the cover of brush that lined the narrow dirt road. In the unfettered peace of a country estate, her thoughts drifted back to Evan. He walked beside her without speaking, seemingly lost in thought. She stole a glance to her left to see that his brows were knitted together and his jaw worked a clinched muscle in his cheek.
As they walked towards Bettie’s home, the house had a welcoming look with a red front door under a wide porch. The white clapboard siding and ornate wood trim glowed pristine in the afternoon sun. Black shutters couched windows upstairs and down.
Four rocking chairs beckoned her to rest and sit a spell. A globe oil lamp in the front window reflected the afternoon light and gave the appearance that the house had a light of its own. There was depth of life in this house. It was the light and soul that came from the collective unity of the people that called it home.
The front door swung wide with a burst. Standing there like the lord of the manner, a little boy of about eight years old sized her up and gave her a grin. He marched down the stairs toward her without letting her eyes go. In all her years teaching fourth grade, she had seen a few young men with such charisma. They were a rare breed. While they gave her all the respect of her position, they acted completely as her equal. He stopped in front of her and waited for her to get a good look.
“Miss Wallingsford, I presume?” he asked as he reached for her hand.
Without thinking, she extended her right hand forward to shake his hand. He didn’t move but looked at her hand and a chuckle burst from his lips.
“You’re an odd girl.”
Unsure of what he meant, she looked at Evan for explanation.
“You offered your hand as a man does. I think he is not sure how to proceed.”
“Oh. Sorry for the confusion. Is this better?”
She rotated her thumb under to offer the back of her hand in a more demure salutation.
The boy took it and gave her a kiss that felt like soft wind on a fall day, then, “May I introduce myself? I am Carlton Black.”
She froze. The edge o
f her vision blurred tunneling in on the face of the boy in front of her. A boy who was her great-great-grandfather. A boy who died before she was born. He died an old man. The image of a photograph appeared in her mind. An elderly man with a long pointed white beard super-imposed itself over the boy’s face. The blurred edges of her vision closed in even further until his eyes were the only thing clear. Same eyes.
Stomach acid rose until it burned in her throat as nausea threatened to overtake her. Her hands slid over her hips until her fingers touched and she pressed in hoping to secure her suddenly wavering insides. Her mind cramped and stretched to get around what she knew was reality and what stood before her.
“Carlton?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He tilted his head ever so slightly trying to understand the panic in her eyes. “Would you care to rest? There is a chair.”
He motioned toward the rocking chair.
“Miss Wallingsford? You look like you’ve had a fright. Bide here.” Evan gently pressed his hand against the small of her back.
The ground seemed to shift as she stepped up onto the porch. She struggled to remain upright. She felt an arm encircle her waist. The heat of the soft side of his arm seared through her dress distracting her from the reality dilemma. She leaned into the safe hollow under his arm against his chest. Letting go of her panic, she closed her eyes and let him lead her to the chair.
“Sit here, Miss Wallingsford. Carlton, get her a glass of water.”
“Yes, sir.” He dashed into the house through the front door.
Evan knelt on one knee in front of her, “Are you well? What’s ailing you?”
“It’s just,” she broke off not knowing how to explain it. “I don’t,” she tried again. “Carlton,” was all she could manage to say.
“At the creek you told me. You told me you had a great-great-grandpap named Carlton. Miss Wallingsford, is he,” he paused. “Do you think he is the same person? Is it possible?”
She locked on his eyes. “Yes,” she breathed.