Once Beyond a Time

by Ann Tatlock

  I roll my eyes and wander off to pretend like I’m looking at the movie posters. The thing is, though, I just don’t feel like sitting with my cousins the Clampetts and the bunch of circus freaks who are supposed to be my own family. I mean, can my life get any worse? Dad’s a two-timing hypocrite, Mom’s a gutless pushover who won’t divorce him, and now my kid brother has an imaginary friend named Mac. Criminy. If somebody put a bullet through my brain right now, I’d thank him before I died.

  8

  Meg

  Sunday, July 14, 1968

  SHELDON INSISTED WE come to church this morning, though he didn’t bother trying to extend his authority as far as Linda. He knew it would do little good—might even make matters worse—to force her to come with us. She was still in bed, asleep, when we left for Valley View Baptist Church. Steve and Donna had invited us to the Presbyterian Church with them, but Sheldon declined. A lifelong Baptist, he has never been a fan of Calvin and predestination.

  Valley View is a quaint little church, white clapboard built upon a foundation of fieldstone. As the name implies, it’s cradled in a valley. The side windows are open to let in the air while the large window over the altar is a stained glass recreation of the resurrection of Christ. He stands there in a white robe showing us his upturned palms, his nail-scarred hands.

  A sign outside says the congregation was established in 1893. Most of the congregants here look as though they are from among that original group. Oh, I know, it’s unkind and sarcastic to say that, even to myself, and yet the pews are swimming in gray hair. We are drowning in age. It was beginning to be like this in Abington too. The church everywhere is dying out. In fact, judging from the size of the cemetery rolling through the surrounding fields, I’d say a far greater number of congregants are out there than in here.

  As the preacher climbs up to the pulpit, I glance sideways at Sheldon. His skin is ashen, his mouth drawn down. A muscle in his jaw twitches. I wonder how he feels, being down here rather than up there. Humiliated? Possibly. Like a failure? Probably. In my opinion, he had no business being a pastor in the first place. He certainly wasn’t one when I married him.

  When I married him he was a junior executive at a plastics plant. He was on the bottom rung of the corporate ladder, but he was poised to work his way up. We were already comfortable and things could only get better … but then he came home from work one day and told me he’d gotten the call.

  “What call?” I asked.

  “The call to serve God,” he said.

  I didn’t even know what that meant, but next thing I knew, I was a cashier at Woolworth’s, working to put Sheldon through seminary, and when he was done with that, I was a pastor’s wife, ready or not. Like it or not. Cut out for it or not.

  Through it all, I loved him. And I tried to be the best pastor’s wife possible, in spite of the frailty of my own faith.

  Digger sits between Sheldon and me, bored, fidgeting, swinging his feet back and forth beneath the pew. I put a hand on his knee to still the double pendulum he has made of his legs. He looks up at me and smiles his irresistible smile. I can still count on him to love me. For now, at least.

  But someday he’ll grow up, like Carl, and that will change his devotion to me. Oh, he may still love me, as Carl does, but he won’t need me anymore. If only I could stop time and keep Digger this age forever, at least then I’d have one person I could count on.

  Linda, it seems, is completely lost to me. How did that happen? If I shut my eyes, I can still experience it perfectly: she as a very small child, sitting in my lap, her head resting gently against my shoulder as I read to her at bedtime. I kiss the wispy curls on the crown of her head and tell her I love her. “I love you too, Mommy,” she says. We were bonded then, heart and soul. And now?

  No matter what I say to her now, it’s the wrong thing. If I ask a question, she responds with sarcasm. If I make a suggestion, she responds with rage. If I say, “I love you,” she rolls her eyes.

  Where did my little girl go? Does any part of her exist anymore? If so, how can I find her?

  Yesterday, our tour of the town ended at Steve and Donna’s house. Their new house. That incredible dwelling they built for themselves. Afterward, when we got home, Linda followed me into the kitchen where I’d gone to get a glass of milk for Digger. She didn’t even have to speak. Her eyes said it all: See what you got for marrying Daddy? If you’d married someone else you could be living in a palace like Aunt Donna.

  I poured the milk and put the bottle back in the fridge. “What’s the matter, Linda?” I finally asked.

  She crossed her arms and scowled at me. How does one slim body hold so much anger? “You should have divorced Daddy,” she said. “Then we could have stayed in Abington instead of coming down here and living in this shack. We’d all be better off, if you’d just left him.”

  “You know,” I said, trying to sound calm, “most kids don’t want their parents to get divorced.”

  “Yeah?” Her eyes narrowed the way they do so often now. “Well, I’m not most kids.”

  “Listen, Linda, I know you’re unhappy about the move, but I wish you’d get that chip off your shoulder and try to make the best of things. Anyway, I know you better than you think. You’ve always loved Daddy, and you love him now, whether you’re willing to admit it or not.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to look away. I waited. Finally, she said, “Sure, I love him. But right now, I don’t like him very much.”

  With that, she turned and went upstairs to her room.

  And with that, too, I understood my own self a little better. I still love Sheldon, but I can’t say I like him very much anymore. The pain of betrayal is just too deep. Do I want to spend the rest of my life hurting like this? And do I want to spend the rest of my life with the man who caused the pain?

  I can still divorce Sheldon and start a new life. It’s not too late. I do have biblical grounds, after all. Infidelity. I could leave Sheldon and not even God could blame me.

  A jarring chord from the organ draws me back to the service. I reach for the hymnal, and we all stand to sing. I glance again at Sheldon, this stranger beside me. He stands there with a hymnal open in one palm, but his lips don’t move in song. He used to love to sing the old hymns. Now he has no voice.

  A person grows lonely when her loved ones change into people she doesn’t even recognize. And, for crying out loud, if the love of your own family isn’t certain, what are you supposed to lean on?

  9

  Digger

  Monday, July 15, 1968

  “HEY, MAC! WHERE ya been?”

  I jump off the big rock and run across the yard when I see Mac come around the side of the house.

  He shrugs and says, “Around. Where’ve you been?”

  “Right here, mostly.”

  “Oh.”

  “Whatcha been doing? You got black stuff all over you.”

  “Me and Austin been down in the town poking around at the damage from the fire.”

  “What fire?”

  His eyes bug out. He looks at me like he’s looking at a ghost. “Don’tcha know about the fire?”

  I shake my head.

  “Jumpin’ Jiminy, Digger! The whole town just about burnt down. Well, most everything down on Sutton Street, anyway.”

  “It did?”

  “Yup. Yesterday. Didn’t you see the smoke or hear everybody shouting? Just about everyone was down there with buckets trying to put out the flames.”

  I shake my head again.

  “Where were you yesterday?”

  “I was here.’ Cept for in the morning, when we were at church.”

  “Well, you must be blind or deaf or maybe even dead because everybody in town knows there was a fire.”

  He starts looking mad. I can’t help it if I didn’t know about any fire. I’m thinking he might be lying.

  “How’d it happen?” I ask.

  “Sparks from the train, they think. Ne
arly burnt the whole street before they finally got it put out.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. And you didn’t know about it?”

  Now I’m sure he’s mad at me, and I’m mad at him because one of us is lying and it ain’t me. “No,” I say again, “I’m telling you, I don’t know anything about any fire.”

  His hands are the color of charcoal. He stuffs them in the pockets of his overalls. “Well, you missed it, then.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “I can show you the burned down street if you want.”

  “You want to walk from here to town?”

  “Ain’t that far. I do it all the time. Austin says it’s only a couple of miles.”

  “Who’s Austin?”

  “He’s my brother. And he ought to know.”

  I stick my hands in my own pockets and feel the pack of gum the lady at the ice cream store gave me. I haven’t even opened it. I tug it out now and figure I might as well offer Mac a piece.

  I show him the pack. “Want some?”

  “What is it?”

  “Wrigley’s chewing gum. Spearmint.”

  “Sure,” he says.

  I open the pack and pull out a stick. “Here.”

  He reaches out for it. I let go of the gum, and it falls to the ground. “Sorry,” I say. He’s saying it’s all right while I’m already bending down to pick it up.

  “Here you go.”

  Mac’s holding out his hand and I give him the gum, but it just ends up falling to the ground again. Mac and I look at each other.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I ask. “Can’t you hold on to it?”

  Now he really looks mad. “This some kind of magic trick or something?”

  “No, it isn’t. Honest. I’m trying to give you the piece of gum.”

  “Well, it isn’t funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m just trying to give you the piece of gum. Hey—”

  But Mac has already turned and stomped away. I run to catch up with him. I want to go to town; I do, to see whether he’s telling the truth about Sutton Street getting burned down. But by the time I get around the corner of the house, Mac is gone.

  I’m not sure Mac and me are going to be very good friends, the way things are going.

  10

  Linda

  Monday, July 15, 1968

  AT LEAST THIS house is in a clearing, so I can catch some rays. Too bad the batteries in my radio gave out, or I could lie here and listen to some rock. What I wouldn’t give for an hour of the Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix. I’d even listen to Sonny and Cher right now, if it’d make me forget where I am. But then again, the radio stations around here probably don’t play anything but hillbilly music, so that’s not going to do me any good.

  About the only thing that’s the same down here as back home is the sun. It feels nice and warm on my oiled skin. I lie here with my eyes shut, pretending I’m not here, but there. Back home with my friends. With Brian. What I wouldn’t give to have had a chance with Brian.

  Yeah, so dream on. He’s probably hooked up with Carla Herbicek by now. She always did have a thing for him, and now her toughest competition’s been exiled to Possum Holler, and she’s probably already wearing his class ring on a chain around her neck. I hate my life.

  So today’s Dad’s first day at the car lot, and while I’d rather be a salesman’s daughter than a pastor’s daughter, the fact is I’m nothing but the daughter of a hypocrite. I hope he hates the new job. It would serve him right.

  After lunch, Aunt Donna came by to take Mom shopping at the A&P. “Want to come, Linda?” she asked. She was all cheerful, like she’s offering to take me somewhere exciting. Shopping at the A&P? Like, what, I’m supposed to want to go see what’s new in frozens or something?

  “No, thanks, Aunt Donna,” I said. “I think I’ll stay here and work on my tan.”

  Digger wanted to go though. He said he wanted to see Sutton Avenue all burned down. Mom and Aunt Donna looked at each other like Digger’s crazy or something, and Aunt Donna said, “There wasn’t a fire downtown, Digger.” And Mom added, “Where’d you hear that?” And Digger said Mac told him about it this morning. And Mom said, “Who’s Mac?” because she didn’t hear Digger talking to Gloria Reynolds about him, so she doesn’t know yet about Digger’s imaginary friend. So Digger said, “He’s a kid who lives around here,” and even though Mom looked a little skeptical she said, “Well, he was just pulling your leg,” and Digger said, “Yeah, I thought so.” The thing is, though, I’m beginning to wonder whether Digger isn’t maybe a little bit crazy for real, what with making up this Mac guy and talking about him like he’s really there.

  Uncle Steve’s supposed to give Dad a couple of Chevys. Criminy! Dad has to pay for one, but Uncle Steve’s giving him the other one, a used car, just giving it to him to drive around because he says it’s advertising for Birchfield Chevrolet. Uncle Steve must be making a heap of money off that dump of a car lot to be able to afford to give Dad a car. And their house—sheesh. Big as a mansion and everything brand new. They had the place built—designed it themselves, for crying out loud. I could tell Mom was jealous when we walked in the front door on Saturday after that little tour of the town. I know exactly what she was thinking: I could have lived in a nice place like this if I hadn’t married a loser. Sad thing is, she’s right. We’ll never live in a place like that. Never. At least Mom won’t. I will, though. I’m not marrying a loser. No way.

  So Dad said I can have the old station wagon to drive because even though he has to drive a Chevy it’s all right if I drive a Pontiac. So whoop-de-do. The ugliest car on God’s green earth, and I have to be seen behind the wheel. Not that it matters around here. Who cares who sees me? It’ll get me to work anyway, when I start working at the ice cream parlor. Yeah, so I took the job. Called old Gloria this morning and told her I’d do it. She started hooting and hollering again like she’d just won the sweepstakes from Publishers Clearing House. Like hiring me was the best thing that ever happened to her. She said she’s glad to have the help, but I should take a week to “get settled” and then start working next Saturday night. I’m not exactly thrilled about the job, but I might as well earn some money. Maybe then, at the end of the year, I can buy that one-way ticket out of here.

  I should have told Mom to bring back some soft drinks. I’m working up a thirst here and—oh great, the sun’s gone behind a cloud.

  I open my eyes to see how big the cloud is when I see that the shadow on my face isn’t from a cloud but from some guy who’s standing right at the edge of the blanket I’m lying on. He’s just standing there like he’s frozen, and he’s got this shocked look on his face like he’s just stumbled across a dead body in the road or something. I scream, and he jumps about a foot. When I’m done ripping my throat up, and he’s made no move to attack me, I feel brave enough to yell at him, “Who are you and what do you want?”

  By now, he’s got his eyes scrunched up into little tight slits, and his face is burning red, and he’s kind of hopping from one foot to the other.

  “What do you want?” I scream again.

  “I don’t want anything! Honest!”

  “Well, who are you and why are you here?”

  He’s still got his eyes closed when he says, “Why are you lying out here in your undergarments?”

  “My undergarments?” I sit up. I look at the guy with his eyes screwed up, two little prunes in the middle of his face like he wants to look at me but he’s afraid to look at me all at the same time. Is he for real? “Look,” I say, “first of all, what kind of a word is undergarments? I mean, that went out with the last century, didn’t it? And second of all, don’t you know a bathing suit when you see one?”

  “Well,” he blurts out, “that’s not like any bathing suit I’ve ever seen!”

  “You’ve never seen a bikini before?”

  “No, ma’am! Never!”

  “Figures,” I say, “living l
ike you do out here in the backwoods. Women probably swim in bloomers around here. Heck, probably swim fully dressed, for all I know. You can open your eyes now. I’ve got the blanket wrapped around me. And don’t call me ma’am like you think I’m an old lady or something.”

  He opens one eye, sees I’m telling the truth about the blanket, opens the other eye. What an idiot.

  He’s not bad looking, though. In fact, he’s really cute. He’s about my age or a year or two older. Tall, blond and—from what I can tell with all those clothes he’s wearing—he’s built pretty well. Intense blue eyes, now that I can see them. The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt and overalls. Huge clodhopper boots on his feet, and an old cloth cap on his head. I can’t imagine why he’s dressed like that in this heat.

  “So what do you want?” I ask again, more quietly this time.

  “Nothing. Like I said.”

  “Well, what are you doing here, then?”

  He looks at me like he can’t understand what I’m saying. Then he says, “I live here.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “In this house?” I point to our house.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “Oh sure,” I say. “And I’m Lady Bird Johnson.”

  “Who?”

  This is getting weirder by the minute. “You know. Lady Bird Johnson? The First Lady?”

  He looks confused. I go on. “The wife of the president? Or maybe the news hasn’t reached this backwater yet. Of course, I forgot. Johnson’s only been in office five years. Not enough time for the news to reach these hills.”

  He takes a step backward, like any minute he’s going to haul tail out of here.

  “So what’s your name?” I ask. I’ve decided I don’t want him to leave quite yet. This may be my only chance to set my eyes on a good-looking guy for the next year.

  “Austin,” he says slowly like he doesn’t really want to tell me. “Austin Buchanan.”

  “Well, Austin Buchanan, I’m Linda Crane.”

  He nods and tips his cap. Tips his cap! “Glad to meet you,” he says, though he doesn’t sound glad at all, he just sounds kind of scared.