by Ann Tatlock
I think I’m going to faint. Or throw up. Or both. I mean, even when I was on some of my best trips, high on a good batch of speed, I never came up with anything like this. Seeing into another time! Jumping Jehoshaphat!
None of us knows what to say. I mean, what can you say? It’s not like we’re talking about summer fashions here, or a new shade of hair dye. We’re talking about something we’ve never talked about before, something most people will never talk about in their whole entire lives.
Finally, Vernita Ponder says, “I remember that fire like it was yesterday.”
“You were here?” I ask.
“Of course. Where else would I be?”
“Then you knew the Buchanans?”
“Not all that good, but I knew who they were. I’d see them around town, of course. Seems Mr. Buchanan come down here for the cure.”
“The cure?”
“He had tuberculosis. Back then, folks’d come to these mountains from all over the place, thinking the air would cure them. And it did, too.”
Mom asks, “So the Buchanans weren’t native to the mountains?”
“Hardly,” Vernita Ponder says. “They come down from Chicago and were only here long enough for Palmer Buchanan to take the cure. That was a year, maybe. After that, they went back to Chicago. They did come back summers, though, and stay in one of the inns around here like the other tourists. I heard tell that after they died they sent themselves back down here to be buried. I believe they’re in the cemetery over at the Valley View Baptist Church … but I don’t know for sure about that. They weren’t folks I cared for much.” She pauses, then adds, “Except for the youngest boy. He wasn’t a bad kid. He made himself useful by running errands for me and some of the other young mothers in town. He was young, but he was always responsible, that Mac.”
Mom and I look at each other. “Digger’s imaginary friend,” I say.
Mom nods. “Maybe not so imaginary.”
“Then Digger already knows.”
“Knows, but probably doesn’t understand. We’ll have to tell him—even though I hardly understand myself.” She pauses and looks at Vernita Ponder. “So you think the Buchanans were the people we saw in the house last night?”
The old lady nods. “Sounds like, anyway. I wouldn’t put it past Palmer Buchanan to pull a gun first and ask questions later. He loved the mountains, but he didn’t think much of the hill people.”
Mom frowns and her eyebrows scrunch up. “Mrs. Ponder, it’s a little hard to … well, accept all this. I mean, you’ve never actually encountered someone from another time yourself, have you?”
When Vernita Ponder shakes her head, the chandelier earrings send her earlobes flapping. “No,” she said. “Always thought I’d like to have that privilege, but never have.”
“So, you’ve always believed the legend might be true?”
“Of course I believed it. And now after hearing you talk, I know it’s true. In fact, I’ve had my suspicions that house was the place, but I just never knew for sure.”
“Do many people know about this legend, Mrs. Ponder?”
The old lady shrugs. “Folks don’t talk so much about legends anymore. But when I was a girl, plenty of people hoped to find this place where all of time was happening at once. They’d wander the mountains for days, weeks, hoping to come across the place where you can see into time, but no one ever did. Not that I knew of anyway. And now here it is, right here in the town of Black Mountain. Been here all along. Imagine that.” She pauses again and looks like she’s thinking real hard. “I can only figure it must be like a volcano or something. It lies dormant for a while, years maybe, waiting for the right people. I never heard tell the Ciscos saw into another time when they was there.”
“Why do you suppose that is?” Aunt Donna asks.
Vernita Ponder shrugs. “It’s like the Brown Mountain lights, I reckon. You heard of them?”
Mom and I both shake our heads.
“Well, over to Brown Mountain strange lights have appeared, going on for centuries now. No one can explain them. Many people have tried, but no one can say for sure what the lights are. But the thing is, not many people have seen them. Only a handful. Some people go back again and again, waiting and hoping just to catch a glimpse, only to be disappointed. Some others might go one time, twice, and there’s the lights, dancing over the ridge of Brown Mountain, sure as the stars. Who knows why one person sees them and another don’t. Only way I can explain it is to say, it’s a gift.”
“A gift?” Mom asks.
“A gift,” Vernita Ponder repeats.
Mom looks worried. “But is it evil? Is the house evil?”
The wrinkled old face softens for the first time. “Of course not,” she says. “That part of the legend is sure. That place is good. It’s a good gift.”
Then she pushes back her chair and rises. “One more thing,” she says, her stoniness returning as she looks from Aunt Donna to Mom to me. “I’m glad to have met you today, and I’m glad to finally know that the legend is true, that there really is a place …” Her words trail off then, and she starts staring into space like she’s the one who’s suddenly seeing people from another time or something. But in the next minute she snaps back and says, “But as far as the rest of the town goes, this conversation never happened.” And then she clickity-clacks her way back into the shop on her stilettos, letting us know that this discussion we never had is now over.
16
Sheldon
Thursday, July 18, 1968
EVERY GOOD GIFT and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights … but never have I heard of a gift like this. It’s outside the realm not only of my own experience, but of all that I know about God and Scripture.
“Can it really be possible?” I say. I lift a fork laden with roast beef to my lips, lower it without eating. “Who is this Velveta Ponder anyway?”
“Vernita,” Meg quietly corrects me. “It’s Vernita Ponder. And I already told you. She’s an elderly woman who has lived in these mountains all her life. That’s why Donna thought we should talk with her.”
“She’s pretty weird, Dad,” Linda throws in. “But you’ve got to admit, what happened last night was pretty weird too. I mean, how many times do people just appear in your house, shoot at you, and then disappear?”
“And I missed the whole thing!” Digger cries, throwing his elbows onto the table and pushing his fists against his cheeks. “Why didn’t you call me? Next time call me. I always miss the good stuff.”
“Yeah, well, not really, Digger,” Linda says. “You’ve seen that kid Mac, haven’t you? Remember, we told you he’s one of those people from that other time.”
“Yeah.” He’s still pouting, but he nods.
“So, where he is it isn’t 1968. It’s 1916.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Digger sits up suddenly, his face full of excitement. “Cool!”
“Now listen,” I say, “we don’t know that for sure.”
“But Sheldon,” Meg protests, “what other explanation can there be?”
“I don’t know, but I know there must be one. This all-of-time-happening-at-once legend—it’s … it’s, well, I’m trying to reconcile it with what I know about God.”
“But Dad!” Digger says. “You don’t know every single little thing about God, do you?”
“Well—”
“Yeah, Dad,” Linda interrupts. “And like you’re always saying anyway, all things are possible with God. Remember that one?”
I open my mouth to respond, but Meg jumps in first. “I seem to remember you preaching on God being—what was it?—the Alpha and the Omega, right? The beginning and the end. I distinctly remember you saying he sees the end from the beginning. Maybe it has something to do with that.”
I am silenced.
No, Digger, I do not know everything about God.
A
nd yes, Linda, with God all things are possible.
And yes again, Meg, God is the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end.
But a place in this finite world where all of time is happening at once?
Can it really be possible?
17
Linda
Friday, July 19, 1968
“YOUR DAD TRIED to shoot my dad,” I say.
“Yeah, I know,” Austin says. “So, what happened?”
“He missed by about fifty years.”
Austin and I are staring at each other, and I’m waiting for him to say something. Instead, he’s just standing there completely still, and his face is bunched up like his stomach hurts. “I don’t understand what you mean,” he finally says. He’s speaking slowly like he thinks I have to read his lips or something. “What’s going on here? Do you know?”
I nod. “Sit down,” I say, pointing with my thumb toward a spot on the porch steps beside me. I have to admit, I’ve kind of been sitting here hoping he’d show up. You know, like I’d catch him coming home from work again because I’ve been wanting to talk with him about what’s going on around here.
He hardly takes his eyes off me while he climbs the steps. He’s acting like if he takes his eyes off me, I’ll start swinging at him for his dad trying to shoot my dad. He settles himself on the top step and retrieves a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of his overalls.
“Hey, can I have one of those?” I ask.
I don’t like the way his eyes pop open in surprise. “You smoke?” he asks.
“Whenever I can get my hands on a cigarette, I do.”
“I don’t know many girls who smoke.”
“That’s because your generation was full of prudes.”
“What do you mean? We’re the same age, aren’t we?”
“Listen, are you going to let me have a smoke or not?”
“Well.” He looks at the pack of cigarettes. “All right.” Then, sounding rather proud, he says, “Most of the folks around here roll their own tobacco, but Dad has these sent down from Chicago.”
“Nice. So hand one over.”
He places one in my hand, but it goes right through my skin and lands on the porch.
“What the—” Austin swears and leans away from me like I’m a ghost or something.
I try to touch the cigarette, but my finger goes right through it. “I should have known,” I say quietly. I feel something like awe as I run my finger through the cigarette again and again.
When I look at Austin, his face is white, and there are beads of sweat breaking out all over his forehead. He’s trying to say something, but he’s having trouble getting the words out. “Should … should have known what?” he finally manages to ask.
“That I wouldn’t be able to touch it.”
“Why not?”
“Well,” I have to stop and think a minute. “I’m not really sure.”
Austin stares at me for a good long while. “You’re talking in circles,” he says angrily. “Listen, get to the point. I want to know what’s going on around here.”
“Okay,” I say. “Okay, here’s the point. It’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“No. Not time for something, just time. We’re living in a place where all of time is going on at once.”
Now he’s looking at me like I’m wacko, with his eyes bugging out and his mouth hanging open. “What are you saying?” he asks.
“Do you know a woman in town named Vernita Ponder?”
“No.”
“Well, I guess if she’d told you, she would have told me she told you, but she said she never spoke with you, so I guess it’s obvious she didn’t tell you.”
Austin stands up abruptly. “That’s crazy talk,” he says. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I don’t like it. Maybe you’d better leave before—”
“Sit down, Austin,” I say. When he doesn’t make a move, I add, “Please. Please sit down, all right? I don’t really understand it myself, but I’ll try to explain.”
To my surprise, Austin doesn’t argue with me. He just sits down again. He waves the unlit cigarette in his hand. “You mind?” he asks.
“No, go ahead.”
His fingers tremble slightly as he strikes a match. He inhales deeply, looks at me and waits.
I lean back against the step and settle in. This might take awhile, and I want to be comfortable. I look up at the sky and take a deep breath. “There’s a legend in these mountains,” I begin …
18
Digger
Saturday, July 20, 1968
I’M SITTING AT the kitchen table eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, when I hear a weird noise outside. I run out the back door and see Mac sitting on top of the rock, playing a harmonica.
“Hey Mac! You know what?”
He stops blowing on the harmonica. He wipes the spit off his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “What?”
“My sister told me where you’re at it’s 1916.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, did you know where I’m at it’s 1968?”
He nods a little. “That’s what Austin told me. He said your sister told him.”
He starts playing the harmonica again.
“Well, don’t ya believe it?”
He stops blowing again. “Sure, I believe it. Why not? Your sister a liar or something?”
“No,” I say. Then, “Well, maybe sometimes. But I don’t think she’s lying about this because my mom says so, too.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, it seems kind of strange, doesn’t it? Us living at different times but talking to each other?”
He shrugs. “Lots of things seem kind of strange. My Grandma Lowry, my mom’s mom—she used to talk all the time to the Archangel Michael. No one else could see him, but Grandma’d talk to him like he was sitting right there at the kitchen table.”
“Yeah? What’d they talk about?”
“I don’t know. I never listened much.”
“She still talk to him?”
“Naw.”
“How come?”
“She died.”
“Oh.”
He plays the harmonica for a minute, and then he stops. He looks around like he’s looking for something.
I say, “We’re not supposed to tell anybody, you know.”
“About what?” he asks.
“About us living at different times.”
He shrugs. “So who would care? No one cared about Grandma talking to the angel. They just said she was queer in the head.”
“So you’re not gonna tell anyone?”
“Naw.”
“Me neither. But I can tell you about the future, if you want. Want me to?”
“Naw, not really.”
I listen to him play a little bit. If he’s trying to play a song, I don’t know what it is. I think he could use a lot of practice.
“You want to play Cowboys and Indians, then?”
“Sure!” He stuffs the harmonica in his shirt pocket, leaps up and jumps off the rock. “Geronimo!” he yells.
I guess that makes me the cowboy, then, if he’s the Indian.
19
Meg
Saturday, July 20, 1968
WE HAVE TO drive into town to the post office to get our mail, but I’d go a hundred times a day if every time I went I found a letter from Carl waiting for me. This is the first one we’ve received from him since we arrived in Black Mountain. It was hard to do, but I waited until I got back home to open it. Opening his letters is a moment to savor.
“Dear Mom, Dad, Linda, and Digger, I am fine.”
He always starts that way. “I am fine.” He has no idea how I grab at those words the way a drowning person grabs at a rope. Or maybe he does. Maybe that’s why he always says it first, before anything else.
I settle back in the rocking chair to read. It’s not a long letter. Words of thanks for the box of baked goods I mailed off right before we
left Abington. He shared the cookies and pound cake with his buddies in his hut and no one complained about them being a little stale. The chow they serve in the mess is awful and while he might feel full he’s never satisfied, and he can’t wait to get back to a home-cooked meal. He’s working like a dog, he says, especially when it comes to the daily report. The report, reviewed each evening by both the Executive Officer and the Commanding Officer, tells where every man in the battalion is at all times. This includes a breakdown, by pay grade, rate, company, etc., and when and where the detachments are and which men are in the detachments (name, rate, service number, and company), emergency leaves, R & R, TADs, men on security watch, mess detail, trash crew, laundry detail, the rear echelon, men in school (back in the States), etc. And the numbers are always changing, every day, and each one requires a diary entry, and sometimes it’s enough to drive him crazy. But he likes the guys he works with in the office, and on the whole the place isn’t too bad, and at least he’s getting used to the nighttime mortar attacks. They don’t happen every night, just sometimes. When the siren goes off, most of the men run out of the huts and jump into the mortar pits naked so it’d be pretty funny—all of them running around in their birthday suits—if only there weren’t incoming artillery to worry about.
He ends his letter, ironically, by saying, “Don’t worry,” and I wonder, how can I not worry when my firstborn is in a war zone? Thank God he’s not on the front lines, but even so, like Carl himself said in his last letter, “This place is no picnic.” No, it’s no picnic when young men who have barely even started living are shipped home in body bags.
I lean my head against the back of the chair and shut my eyes. I don’t want to think dreadful thoughts. Please, God, let Carl come home safely.
When I open my eyes, I notice a half-eaten sandwich on the table. Digger’s lunch, the peanut butter and jelly I made him before I headed down to the post office.
“Linda?”
“What?”
She’s in the living room, watching something on TV while she paints her fingernails a fiery red. I can see her from where I’m sitting in the kitchen.