Hannah's Moon (American Journey Book 5)

by John A. Heldt

  CHAPTER 9: RON

  Forrest City, Arkansas – Thursday, March 29, 1945

  Ron gazed out a window of his coach and fixed his eyes on a standpipe water tower. Tall, slim, and dingy gray, it looked a lot like a hundred other towers he had seen in four days, but he found it interesting nonetheless. It was a simple symbol of a simpler time, a mainstay of Middle America, and a vivid reminder that he was no longer in the digital age.

  He studied the landmark for a moment and then turned his attention to the approaching town, which seemed to emerge out of nowhere in the early morning light. He saw a feed store, a church, a gas station, and houses with porches in front and clotheslines in back.

  As the diesel train slowed to a crawl, he noticed people as well. Two men in overalls worked on a Model A that had stalled near tracks. A paperboy made his rounds on a bike with a basket. A farmer loaded a sack of seed into his dilapidated pickup.

  Ron looked at his sleeping wife, who nestled into his side, and then at his brother-in-law, who snoozed away in the facing seat. He wondered what each was dreaming about.

  A moment later, the train came to a stop in front of a four-story brick edifice that housed both the Forrest City Union Station and the Marion Hotel. According to literature Ron had read on the trip, the hotel was a popular stop on the Little Rock-Memphis run, one of the busiest stretches in the sprawling Chicago, Rock Island, and Pacific railroad system.

  Ron watched with interest as a porter announced the station and several passengers exited the train. Some had been with the time travelers since Oklahoma City and at least one since Amarillo. All were nicely dressed, friendly, and polite. If there was one thing Ron liked about the people of the forties, it was that they put their best face forward.

  Five minutes later, the train, one of the oldest in the line, inched forward and pulled away from the station. As it did, several new passengers, including two uniformed Army officers, entered the passenger coach. The officers took the seat directly across the aisle.

  Ron laughed to himself as he pondered the scene. This was not real, he concluded. It could not possibly be real. A few days ago, in the seemingly distant world of 2017, he was ordering restaurant supplies on his cell phone. Now he was riding an antique train with cast members from a 1940s feature film. What had he gotten himself into?

  He wondered again what had possessed him to sign off on this crazy adventure. Then he looked at his wife — his kind, beautiful, sleeping wife — and answered his own question.

  Claire had talked him into doing crazy things since the day they had met as juniors at the University of Colorado. He had been a promising linebacker reeling from a career-ending injury. She had been a bubbly piccolo player who liked to cheer people up. When she suggested a scavenger hunt as an idea for a first date, he knew he had found his mate.

  Life, in fact, had been one wild ride for Ron Rasmussen and Claire Baker. Following their graduation and elopement in 2005, they had worked on a cruise ship, tended bars in Jamaica, waited tables in San Francisco, and poured lattes from Chinatown to Chattanooga, a final destination they had selected by literally throwing a dart at a map.

  They had done anything and everything for more than twelve years except the one thing they wanted to do most. They had not raised a child.

  Ron kissed the top of Claire's head, pulled her closer, and then directed his attention to the sleeping man in the facing seat. He smiled when the sleeping man stirred in his seat, mumbled a few unintelligible words, and opened his eyes.

  "Good morning," Ron said.

  David did not answer immediately. He instead covered a yawn, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and gazed out the window at the flat featureless countryside.

  "Where are we?" David asked.

  Ron chuckled.

  "The Twilight Zone."

  David laughed.

  "We've been there for days."

  Ron acknowledged the truthful statement with a smile and then gave his brother-in-law a straight answer. He owed him that much.

  "We just left Forrest City, Arkansas."

  David peered out the window and gazed again at the rural landscape. He put a hand above his eyes as the train approached a smattering of houses and a crossing.

  "Is Memphis coming up?"

  "Yep. It's the next stop."

  David yawned, stretched his arms, and settled into his seat as the engineer sounded a deafening horn. Then he gazed at Sleeping Beauty, shook his head, and laughed.

  "I swear she could sleep through a concert."

  Ron smiled.

  "She has."

  "Are you serious?" David asked.

  Ron nodded.

  "She slept through a performance in Vegas ten years ago."

  David chuckled.

  "She is something."

  "That she is," Ron said.

  David started to say something but stopped when a young mother, holding a crying infant, moved briskly toward the front of the coach. He smiled and looked at Ron.

  "She has her hands full," David said.

  "Yes, she does."

  "Are you looking forward to fatherhood?"

  "I am," Ron said. "I'm looking forward to a change."

  "You're going to make a great dad," David said.

  "I hope so."

  "Do you want a boy or a girl?"

  "I don't have a preference."

  "What about Claire?"

  Ron sighed.

  "She wants a baby with ten fingers and ten toes."

  David frowned.

  "She at least deserves that. She's been through a lot."

  "We both have."

  "Have you picked out some names?"

  Ron nodded.

  "We like Erik and Erin."

  "Those are good names," David said.

  "I think so."

  Ron had suggested the names on the flight to Los Angeles and was surprised when Claire quickly agreed to them. He knew she had other names in mind, but he also knew that her priorities had changed. From the moment she buried her son, Claire seemed to care less about names and genders than she did about simply making motherhood happen.

  Ron settled into his seat, eased his hold on his wife, and let his mind drift. For the next fifty minutes, he thought about the unfortunate past, the perplexing present, and a future that seemed clear and promising. He did not know what he would do with the resources and opportunities that waited, but he did know he would not squander them.

  As the train rushed toward the Mississippi River, Ron turned his attention to more immediate matters. When he and the others reached Chattanooga, they would have to find a hotel, access a savings account, and shop for a car. If there was one guilty pleasure that he looked forward to in 1945, it was driving around town in a new set of wheels.

  Ron leaned toward the window, looked through the glass, and scanned the horizon for familiar sights. He soon found one in the form of the Frisco Bridge.

  The engineering marvel, a cantilever through truss bridge, connected West Memphis, Arkansas, with its larger Tennessee sibling. Built in 1892, the impressive span, nearly five thousand feet long, was the first bridge to cross the Mississippi south of the Ohio River.

  "Look out there," Ron said. He pointed at the bridge. "I see an old man in middle age."

  David peered out the window.

  "You mean that thing is still standing in 2017?"

  Ron put a finger to his lips and then answered in a hushed voice.

  "It was on my last business trip."

  David sighed.

  "I guess I need to watch my tongue."

  Ron glanced at the Army officers and then at his brother-in-law. He could tell by David's red face that he had correctly gauged the potential seriousness of his gaffe.

  "We all do," Ron said.

  He returned David's sheepish grin and then turned again to the window. As he did, he felt movement under his left arm and heard a familiar voice.

  "Why are you smiling?" Claire asked David. She looked up at h
er husband. "Why are you smiling? You two are up to something. I know it."

  Ron chuckled.

  "Let's just say we reached an understanding."

  "What? What are you talking about?" Claire asked. She wiped sleep from her eyes and looked out the window. "Where are we?"

  "Can't you tell?"

  "No. I can't."

  "We're on the Frisco Bridge," Ron said. He pulled Claire close. "We're entering Memphis. We're back in Tennessee."

  CHAPTER 10: CLAIRE

  Chattanooga, Tennessee – Friday, March 30, 1945

  Sitting in the front passenger seat of a 1941 Hudson Six sedan, Claire gazed at her husband, the driver, and offered a playful smile. She knew he was in automotive heaven and wanted him to know that she approved of his happy mood.

  "Does this car meet your satisfaction?" Claire asked.

  "I think you know the answer," Ron said.

  Claire turned around and looked at David.

  "That's Ron's way of saying we'll never drive it."

  David smiled.

  "Just give him a few days. He'll get bored and find another toy."

  Ron chuckled.

  "Think again."

  Claire laughed to herself. She liked the banter almost as much as she liked how the day had begun. She had accomplished more in the past five hours than in the past five days.

  After spending the night at a hotel near the train station, the travelers had walked to a savings and loan, withdrawn a thousand dollars, and made their rounds at a used car dealership, a gas station, a diner, a utilities office, and a real estate agency. It was at the agency that they had their first lengthy conversation with a native of the era.

  Millard Finch, a property manager who reminded Claire of Ned Ryerson, the salesman in Groundhog Day, had practically jumped out of his chair when the Californians walked into his office. He had learned many things about the three from his "phone friend" Geoffrey Bell and wanted to make sure they received a proper welcome to Tennessee.

  Finch spent an hour chatting about Chattanooga before even mentioning the property Ron, Claire, and David had come to see. When Ron finally asked to see the house, at three fifteen, Finch got the hint, escorted his clients out the door, and asked them to follow him by car to St. Elmo, a historic neighborhood in the shadow of Lookout Mountain.

  Claire smiled as she recalled the meeting and laughed as she watched Finch zip through town like a madman. She found it hard to believe he had passed driver training.

  "What's so funny?" Ron asked.

  Claire pointed to the blue Plymouth in front of them.

  "He's funny," Claire said.

  Ron smiled.

  "He's definitely something."

  Claire watched with amusement as Finch signaled left, turned right, and started down what looked like a dead-end street. She laughed and shook her head.

  "Do you think he knows where he's going?"

  "Yeah," Ron said. "He knows. He's just excited to show us the house."

  Claire giggled. She didn't doubt that for a minute.

  Two minutes later, Finch pulled in front of an elegant green house on St. Elmo Avenue. He quickly exited his car, proceeded to the gate of a white picket fence, and waited for his clients. He spoke to all three as they walked slowly from the Hudson to the gate.

  "I hope I didn't drive too fast for you," Finch said. He opened the gate and let the others pass through. "Sometimes I get a little excited when I show folks a house."

  Claire exchanged knowing smiles with Ron and David and then spoke to the hyperactive property manager. She did her best to hold back a laugh.

  "You did just fine, Mr. Finch."

  "That's good. I've lost a few clients in this neighborhood."

  I believe it.

  As she waited for Finch to close the gate and lead them into the residence, Claire took a good look at the house that would soon be her home. With sash windows, overhanging eaves, and tapered square columns on each side of a narrow front porch, the house was practically a poster child for the American craftsman style of the early 1900s.

  "Has this place been empty long?" Claire asked.

  "No," Finch said. "Mr. Green, the owner, left for Texas just last month."

  "Does he want to sell the house?"

  Finch nodded.

  "He wanted to sell it this year, but I advised him to wait. I told him that as soon as the war ends, thousands of soldiers will be coming home, getting married, and looking for pretty little places like this."

  Claire grinned. She couldn't take issue with that.

  "I think you're right."

  "I know I am. If there's one thing I can do well, it is spot a boom market from a mile away," Finch said. "But enough about me. Let me show you what you came to see."

  Finch led the others up a few steps and onto the porch. He dug out a key, opened the door, and for the next fifteen minutes showed his clients their new digs.

  Claire liked what she saw, from the hardwood floors and modern kitchen to the large pantry and a lavishly furnished living room that looked like a scene from a Norman Rockwell painting. She loved that the house was furnished, clean, and ready to go.

  She also loved that Geoffrey Bell had put his stamp on the place. When Claire finally walked into the smallest of the three bedrooms, she found a card and a bouquet of roses on a nightstand, a teddy bear on a chair, and a wooden crib in a corner. She began to tear up even before Ron and Finch joined her in the room.

  "Are you all right?" Ron asked.

  Claire nodded and wiped her eyes.

  "I'm just having a mommy moment."

  Finch beamed.

  "Mr. Bell told me you were coming to adopt a baby. He insisted on me buying flowers and the finest crib I could find," Finch said. He paused. "The bear is from me."

  "Thank you, Mr. Finch."

  "You're welcome, ma'am."

  Claire looked at Ron.

  "You two finish your business. I need some air."

  Ron nodded.

  "Take your time, honey. We'll get you if we need you."

  Claire kissed her husband on the cheek, exited the bedroom, and walked through the living room toward a box of tissues she had seen on an end table. She made it about halfway across the floor when she noticed that someone had left the front door open.

  Claire walked to the entry, poked her head outside, and started to shut the door. She stopped when she saw something in the corner of her eye, turned her head, and saw David sitting on a large porch swing that hung from two thick chains.

  "What are you doing out here?" Claire asked.

  "I'm just collecting my thoughts," David said.

  "Do you want some company?"

  "Yeah. I think I do."

  Claire shut the front door, walked to the swing, and sat next to her brother as he stared blankly at the street. She noticed that he seemed a little subdued, if not melancholy.

  "Are you OK?" Claire asked.

  "I'm fine," David said.

  "You look sad."

  "Adrift is probably a better word."

  Claire furrowed her brow.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean I'm feeling a little detached from this scene," David said. "I know Geoffrey put me in charge of the trip, but I think he did it as a courtesy. You and Ron don't need me to manage your affairs. You certainly don't need me to handle your adoption."

  "I disagree with part of that. We're going to need you for a lot of things. Ron and I don't know much about the forties. You do. We're going to need that knowledge at some point, if only to make our stay more enjoyable."

  David tilted his head.

  "Is that all?"

  "No," Claire said. She grinned. "We're also going to need a world-class babysitter."

  David chuckled.

  "I knew I had a purpose in life, and by Jove, you've identified it!"

  Claire stared at her brother.

  "Don't get flippant with me."

  David smiled.

  "What
are you going to do? Tattle on me?"

  Claire laughed hard. When she finally collected herself, she leaned toward David, threw an arm over his shoulder, and pulled him close.

  "Oh, I've missed this. I wish you lived closer."

  David looked at his sister thoughtfully.

  "I say the same thing every day."

  Claire took a deep breath.

  "Maybe we can both move back to Denver."

  David nodded.

  "Maybe we can."

  Claire started to ask David about his teaching job but stopped when she saw a woman walk into view, open a mailbox directly across the street, and sift through some letters. She had not seen many women in Chattanooga and certainly none like this one. Young, slim, blond, and fashionably attired in a burgundy dress, the lady was jaw-dropping gorgeous.

  "We have a pretty neighbor," Claire said.

  David gazed at the woman for several seconds.

  "Yes, we do."

  Claire pulled her arm from David's shoulder and waved at the woman. She smiled when the neighbor waved back, stepped onto her porch, and entered her house, a modest white rambler that needed a fresh coat of paint.

  "She's friendly, at least," Claire said.

  "So it appears."

  "She's probably a banker's wife."

  "I doubt it," David said. "If she were a banker's wife, she wouldn't be living in that shack. My guess is that she's a teacher or a secretary — a single teacher or secretary."

  Claire smiled.

  "Well, if that's the case, I may just invite her to dinner."

  "You would do that," David said.

  Claire laughed.

  "Yes, little brother, I would."

  She gave David another hug and then got up from the swing.

  "Let's go inside and see the house," Claire said. "We have a home to enjoy."

  CHAPTER 11: DAVID

  Flintstone, Georgia – Sunday, April 1, 1945

  Halfway through a long, sweaty walk he did not have to take, David Baker, man of sound mind, circled a small road sign on the Tennessee-Georgia line, smiled, and shouted, "Yabba dabba doo!" He enjoyed every second.

  He had decided to take the walk not only because he liked doing foolish things on a foolish day but also because he liked completing lists. Though he had traveled to every region of the country and more than forty states, he had never visited Georgia.