Once Beyond a Time

by Ann Tatlock

  “Where’d they go?” I wonder aloud.

  “I don’t know that either,” Sheldon replies. “But—” He frowns and slowly stands. “Let me just check something.”

  He walks to the reading chair—no, he walks behind it. I can’t imagine what he’s doing. I watch silently. He seems to be studying the painting on the wall. Then he reaches up and grabs it by the frame and eases it off the nail where it has been resting for who knows how long. There, behind the painting, is what appears to be a bullet hole, a splintered circle in the wood.

  “Jeff said this place is haunted,” Linda reminds us quietly.

  “We don’t believe in ghosts,” Sheldon says.

  “Maybe you don’t, but how do you explain what just happened?”

  Sheldon takes his eyes off the wall and turns his gaze squarely on us. “I don’t have an explanation for this right now. But there’s got to be one, and we’re going to find out what it is.”

  14

  Sheldon

  Wednesday, July 17–Thursday, July 18, 1968

  I HANG THE picture back on the nail and with that, the three of us look at each other and wonder what to do next. What does one do when the inexplicable happens? The thought of turning back to the business at hand—the brushing of teeth, turning off lights, going to bed—is laughable. Minutes pass. No one moves or speaks. Our eyes alone shift left and right as we continue to gaze at each other, hoping one or the other will find words to make sense of what we have just seen.

  At length, Linda says, “I’m scared, Dad.”

  “I know,” I say. Because I’m afraid too. Terrified, really.

  “Maybe we should just get out of here,” Meg suggests. “Just leave, you know?”

  My wife and daughter have their arms wrapped around each other. I haven’t seen them like that for a very long time. They are pale and wide-eyed, and yet it is a beautiful sight. “Where would we go?” I say.

  “Steve and Donna’s. They’ll take us in for the night.”

  I think about that for a moment. “Let’s not do anything rash.” As soon as the words are out, I wonder why I’ve said them. Meg must feel the same because her jaw drops.

  “Rash? You just got shot at by a man who suddenly appeared and just as suddenly disappeared, and you don’t want to do anything rash?”

  I’m trying to decide how to respond when Linda interrupts. “Dad, do you think Digger’s all right?”

  Digger! I rush to the stairs, taking them two at a time, and pound down the upstairs hall to his room. He sleeps soundly, his cheek pressed heavily against the pillow, his mouth open. I scoop him up in my arms. He frowns and protests mildly. “What, Daddy?”

  I kiss his forehead. “It’s all right, Digger. We’re all going to sleep downstairs tonight.”

  He doesn’t ask why, just leans his head against my shoulder and closes his eyes. By the time I lay him down on the couch in the living room, he’s fast asleep again.

  Meg covers him with a blanket, touches his cheek, looks up at me. “What now?” she asks.

  I sigh heavily. “I think we should stay here.”

  Linda hugs herself and begins to cry. Meg goes to her and, holding our daughter tightly, looks at me angrily. “We’re scared to death, Sheldon, and you want us to stay in this place? This house is haunted, and we may be in danger!”

  I want to put my arms around the two of them, but I know it won’t do any good. I raise my hands, pat the air. “Please, sit down. Don’t be afraid.”

  I have to marvel at my own words. I don’t know why, but I simply know that we must stay.

  Meg’s anger turns to incredulity, but she eases into the overstuffed chair with Linda. They look like two abandoned children who are lost in the world. Oh, how I want to protect them!

  I sit too, in my reading chair, and moisten my lips with my tongue. How can I expect them to understand what I don’t understand myself? Quietly, I say, “I’m a man of God, Meg. Like I said, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  Linda actually snorts out a small, sarcastic laugh. I know what she’s thinking. I will ignore it. I reach for my Bible on the side table and open to the book of Psalms.

  “So you think you’re going to find an answer in there, Sheldon?” Meg asks. “You think your Bible will explain all this?”

  I feel a muscle in my jaw tighten. “Well, I know I’m not going to find an answer anywhere else, Meg. It’s got to fit somehow. It’s got to all make sense.”

  Linda starts to cry again. “I don’t want answers,” she wails. “I just want to get out of here!”

  “Honey,” I say, “please believe me when I say we’re going to be all right.”

  “But Sheldon,” Meg argues, “how can you say that? How can you know?”

  How, indeed? I don’t know how I know, but this one thing is sure: As I carried Digger down the stairs, the fear began to dissipate. By the time I’d laid him on the couch, it had given way to an unexpected calm. I don’t understand it, but it’s undeniable. The sense harkens back to the day I was called to the ministry. It’s the same knowing. I feel as though I am being given a second chance. Is that possible?

  “Let’s just try to get a little rest,” I say. “In the morning, we’ll figure out what we need to do.”

  “But how? How do we even begin to figure out something like this? I mean, is there anybody at all who will be able to explain what happened?”

  I have to think about that. “We’ll need to be careful whom we talk to.”

  “Yeah, no kidding!” Linda says. “We start telling people we got shot at by people who weren’t even there they’ll lock us all up in the loony bin and throw away the key!”

  I nod, try to smile. I look at Meg. “I think you should talk with Donna in the morning. She’s a native to this place. She might know something.”

  Meg, looking skeptical, shakes her head. “I think if she knew something, she’d have told us already.”

  “Maybe.” I shrug. “But we have to start somewhere.”

  The room is quiet. I look around, half wondering whether someone else will suddenly appear or whether things will be quiet for the rest of the night. Still, I’m not afraid, only curious.

  “What now, Sheldon?”

  “Get some rest.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to stay awake, read the Scriptures.”

  “If you’re going to read, would you mind reading aloud for a little while?”

  “Of course.”

  My heart constricts, and I must swallow the lump in my throat before I begin. I look at the Bible in my lap, at the Psalm I have opened to. “The Lord is my light and my salvation,” I read, “whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid …”

  Before I reach the end of the passage, Meg and Linda are dozing in each other’s arms. I am still awake when the sun comes up, sitting quietly, pondering, marveling, and still strangely unafraid.

  15

  Linda

  Thursday, July 18, 1968

  MOM AND I sit down at Aunt Donna’s kitchen table while she pours three cups of coffee. My nerves are so shot, I’m about ready to kill for a cigarette. I haven’t had one since we got to this godforsaken place, but you can be sure I’m going to buy some today and smoke the whole pack at once because even now I’m just about to jump right out of my skin.

  “What’s wrong with you two?” Aunt Donna says. “You both look like death warmed over.” After putting the coffee cups in front of us, she sits down and leans her arms on the table, waiting for an answer.

  Mom starts to pick up the cup, but her hand is shaking so bad she gives up and puts it back in the saucer. She sighs and looks at Aunt Donna like she expects to be scolded or something. Then she tells her all about what happened last night.

  When she finishes, Aunt Donna looks at her a long time. For a second, Aunt Donna’s eyes roll over to me. I nod, and she looks back at Mom.

  “I know it sounds crazy, Donna, but i
t’s true.” Mom tries again to lift the cup to her lips, and this time she makes it, sipping the coffee loudly.

  Donna clears her throat. “I’ve heard of strange things happening in these mountains,” she says, “but this takes the cake.”

  “You do believe me, though, don’t you, Donna?”

  “Oh, I believe you, honey. I don’t want to, but yes, I believe you.” She looks out the window to where Digger and Marjorie are playing with hula hoops in the yard. “Does Digger know?”

  “He slept through the whole thing,” I tell her.

  “That’s good,” she says, nodding.

  “Should we talk to Steve?” Mom asks.

  Aunt Donna’s eyes grow narrow as she thinks about that. “The first thing we need to do is talk to Vernita Ponder,” she says.

  “Who?” Mom asks.

  “Vernita Ponder. One of the oldest residents of Black Mountain. She comes from the line of Loudermilks that can be traced back almost to the first white settlers of this valley.”

  “You think she’ll know something?”

  “If anyone does, Vernita will.”

  Mom puts both hands together like she’s praying and touches them to her lips. “Sheldon said not to let it get around town. Do you think we can trust this Anita Ponder not to talk?”

  “Vernita,” Aunt Donna corrects her. “I’ve known her all my life, and yes, I believe we can trust her.”

  “So when should we talk with her?”

  “How about right now?”

  I picture an ancient hillbilly woman sitting on the front porch of a weather-beaten log cabin. Her face is as shriveled as a sun-dried apple, her white hair is pinned into a bun, and she clenches a corncob pipe between her toothless gums. She’s wearing an old cotton dress that’s more patches than anything and a pair of dirty boots without laces. She slowly rocks as she smokes the pipe, her glassy eyes staring off at the mountains that she’s never once seen the other side of.

  Aunt Donna hollers up the stairs to Jeff and tells him to watch after Digger and Marjorie, then she drives Mom and me into the heart of town.

  “What are we doing here?” Mom asks.

  “Vernita works here,” Aunt Donna says as she parallel parks in front of Black Mountain Beauty Shop.

  We get out, and Mom stands on the sidewalk, one hand shading her eyes against the sun. “She works where?”

  “Here. She’s a beautician. She should be in.”

  A bell jingles over the door as we step inside. A couple of ladies sit beneath hair dryers, reading magazines and puffing on cigarettes. What I wouldn’t give to be one of them right now, just sitting there smoking and reading about movie stars like there’s not a thing in the world to worry about.

  In front of a wall of mirrors are three beautician’s chairs, all of them full. Two of the beauticians are young women, each with a bouffant the size of a ski slope. The third beautician—the one at the middle chair wrapping a woman’s hair in strips of foil—that must be Vernita Ponder.

  Aunt Donna squares her shoulders and walks up to the middle chair. “Excuse me, Vernita,” she says.

  The old woman stops fussing with the foil and looks sharply up at Aunt Donna. She’s a small woman and wouldn’t be able to reach the top of her client’s head without the three-inch stilettos she’s wearing. The shoes are red, picking up the dominant color of her tie-dyed mini-skirt. Her outfit is topped by a white silk blouse and a fringed vest of brown leather. Every one of her fingers, thumbs included, is encircled by a ring. All the rings are silver and a number of them have colored stones. She’s also wearing a pair of earrings that look like chandeliers and about a million charm bracelets on each wrist. When she turns around to face Aunt Donna, I see the peace symbol medallion on a slim strip of leather hanging around her neck.

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  She’s a corpse dressed up like Joan Baez and people trust her to cut their hair?

  I want to burst out laughing, and would, if not for the stern eye the woman has turned on me and Mom. She has cheeks bright with rouge, fierce red lips, and a jet black beehive that is obviously a dye job. She looks plain mean—and crazy.

  When Aunt Donna finishes making introductions, the old woman says, “You say they just moved into the old Cisco place?”

  “That’s right.”

  She squints at us.

  Mom, obviously startled, asks, “Who are the Ciscos?”

  Vernita gives us a look that says we’re the dumbest people on God’s green earth. “Gordon and Evelyn Cisco,” she says slowly. “They lived in that house a long time. When he died in ’47, she went on living there alone.”

  “She’s the widow,” Aunt Donna adds. “The one who died in the house but wasn’t found for several days.”

  Oh, that one.

  “Valerie?” The old woman turns to one of the ski slope ladies who’s busy taking the rollers out of some chinless lady’s hair.

  “Yes’um?” Valerie says.

  “Finish up Delilah for me, will you?”

  “Sure, Vernita. I’m almost finished with Louise here.”

  Vernita looks again at the three of us and nods toward the back of the shop. “Come with me.”

  Mom, Aunt Donna, and I follow the heels that are clicking on the linoleum floor. We reach a small round table in the back room and, after Vernita pulls up a couple of extra folding chairs, we all sit down.

  “So what it is you want to talk about?” She sounds annoyed. She reaches for something in the ashtray, and when I see what it is, I almost fall off my chair. It’s a homemade cigarette held together by a roach clip! That’s not tobacco she’s smoking, that’s weed! Where’d she get marijuana around here?

  She almost lights up, thinks better of it, and lets the matchbook drop onto the table. She lays the toke back in the ashtray. I’m disappointed. I’ll take it second-hand, if that’s the only way I can get it. What I wouldn’t give for just one draw on that thing.

  Aunt Donna looks at Mom. “Tell her what you told me, Meg. About what happened last night.”

  Mom tells the story all over again. She sounds even more nervous this time around. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t exactly be wanting to tell our crazy story to this beady-eyed little gnome. Vernita Ponder just sits there, her face growing whiter with every passing minute. She begins to look more and more like that corpse, and I begin to think that if she collapses on the floor, I’m going to pretend like I never had that class in CPR.

  Mom finishes by saying, “I know it sounds pretty unbelievable but …” And then we sit there in silence, hardly even looking at each other.

  Finally, the old woman swallows hard, draws a tissue out of the pocket of her miniskirt and uses it to wipe the beads of perspiration off her forehead. She seems to be trying to collect herself before she finally leans forward and says, “You must not ever tell anyone else what you just told me.”

  Mom looks shocked. “Why not?”

  “You do, Mrs. Crane, and that’s the end of Black Mountain.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People hear a story like this, and we got reporters and news cameras all over the place. We got hippies hiking over the hills and setting up communes in the mountains. We got religious freaks coming to see if there might be statues in the woods that shed real tears or bleed at the palms.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. I can tell Mom’s trying to stay calm when she says, “Well, we don’t want anything like that going on, Mrs. Ponder. We just want to know what happened in our home last night.”

  The old woman looks at the roach again. I know she’s dying to light it, and I wish she would but she doesn’t. “The legend is true then,” she says slowly. “I’ve always wondered.”

  “What legend?”

  Vernita Ponder moistens her lips with her tongue and kneads together her silver-studded hands. “These hills are full of stories,” she begins. She’s talking quietly like she wants to make sure her words can’t be heard out on the flo
or of the shop. “One of the legends has it there’s a place in these mountains where all of time is happening at once.”

  She looks at each one of us like she’s wondering whether we understand. Our blank stares tell her that we don’t.

  “What do you mean, Vernita?” Aunt Donna is the only one brave enough to ask.

  “Just what I said. For centuries, people have believed there’s a place in this chain of mountains where all of time is going on at once, so that sometimes, something happens such that you can see the goings-on of another time. Not only see it, but, talk to it, I guess you’d say. Can’t become a part of it, can’t enter the time, but you can talk to the people there.”

  “Oh right,” I blurt out, leaning back heavily in the folding chair. I can’t help shaking my head and rolling my eyes. Either this lady’s nuts or she’s been hitting on something a whole lot stronger than weed this morning.

  She looks at me, and I close my mouth. “You don’t believe me, missy?”

  “Like, how am I supposed to believe that?” I say.

  “Linda,” Mom starts, but the old lady raises her hand.

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Crane.” She turns back to me and says, “What’s your answer, then, for what happened last night? You were there. You saw it yourself. How do you explain it?”

  I think a minute, then shake my head. She’s got me there. What happened is just as unbelievable as Vernita Ponder’s explanation for it.

  “So what you’re saying, Vernita,” Aunt Donna says, “is that what they saw last night were people who used to live in the house?”

  “Or will live in the house. Time goes both ways.”

  I sit up straight then, remembering something. “Did a family by the name of Buchanan ever live there?”

  Vernita’s beady old eyes shift back to me. “Yes. Back to the turn of the century, or a bit later.”

  “That was them! They were the ones that tried to shoot Dad!”

  “And was there a fire in the town?” Mom asks. “A fire that destroyed much of Sutton Avenue?”

  Another slow turn of the old woman’s head as she looks back at Mom. “1916,” she says.