Once Beyond a Time

by Ann Tatlock

  “Yeah, I guess so. Think you’ll find any gold?”

  “Sure. You just have to know where to look.”

  “Do you know where to look?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure going to find out.”

  “Think there’ll be any gold left by the time you’re older?”

  He nods. “Not many people know about it. Jeb swore me to secrecy. But I know I can tell you because you’re not even born yet.”

  “Yeah I am!”

  “Not in 1916, you’re not.”

  “Oh yeah. Well, when you find the gold, will you leave some there so I can find it after I am born?”

  He shrugs. “Can’t make any promises. Depends on how much there is.”

  “I hope there’s lots.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  I hear a horn honk and finally Aunt Donna’s car is coming up the drive. Jeff and Marjorie are waving their arms out the window at me. I wave back at them and say, “Well, Mac, I’m going swimming. I’ll see you later.” But when I look over to where he is, he’s already gone.

  25

  Sheldon

  Friday, August 2, 1968

  IN THE ROOM above me, Meg’s footsteps tap lightly across the bare floor. I listen for another moment; now it’s quiet. She has probably gone to bed. I sit here in the living room, looking at the Asheville paper. Looking, but not reading. I’m already too filled up to take in any more. And the shameful thing is, most of what fills me is my own sorrow. So much so, there is little room for anything else.

  I’m certain I know now what sin is. It’s a wall. It’s one huge wall that keeps you from everything good in life.

  It’s almost midnight now. Linda should be home soon. I don’t like to think of her out so late, but we are, at any rate, not in the big city anymore. Surely we are safe enough here in Black Mountain. Steve even tells me not to bother reading the Black Mountain News as nothing ever happens.

  I’ll leave the light on, so she can see when she comes in. I’d better go to bed myself, before it gets any later. I’m not used to working on Saturdays, having to get up early. Lots to do tomorrow, getting ready for the upcoming End-of-Summer Blow-out Sale. Reduced prices on every car in the lot. It almost sounds like something I should be excited about. If only I could muster up a little bit of enthusiasm for the job. Maybe it would help if I thought in exclamation points like the newspaper ads Steve has submitted to the Asheville Tribune … Huge End-of-Summer Blowout Sale! Reduced prices on every car in the lot! You won’t find a better deal anywhere! Come check us out and …

  Nope. It’s no use.

  I toss aside the newspaper and head for the stairs, stepping lightly in my stocking feet. There is a nightlight on in the upstairs hall for Digger, in case he needs to find his way to the bathroom during the night, but also because he’s not yet comfortable falling asleep in the dark. He is beginning to seem so grown up, I almost forget what a little guy he still is.

  I stop at the door of my room and reach inside for the light switch, but before I find it, the light suddenly goes on and I discover I am not alone. A young man sits at the desk with his face only inches from a television screen.

  He turns his head, and when he sees me, he stands abruptly as though coming to attention. We stare at each other for what must be only seconds, though it seems like a very long time. I know what Meg has told me about the house, and yet, I am trying to understand how it can be that this fellow is here. Finally, he says, “Don’t be afraid.”

  Oddly enough, I am not afraid, only puzzled. I am made even more so by his announcement not to be afraid. It seems a strange way to greet a person, even a person who shouldn’t be there.

  “I suppose I should be surprised to find you here,” I say in response. “But I understand that there’s—something—about the house …”

  I’m not quite sure what to say, or whether an explanation is needed, though before I can go on the man jumps in and says, “I’m very pleased to be meeting you.”

  I take a small step forward. “You seem to have been expecting me.”

  “Not really, no. I was only hoping—”

  “Do you know me, then?”

  “Only in a manner of speaking. You see, I’ve heard of you.”

  “In what year do you live?” I ask, stepping closer.

  “2005. And for you it’s …”

  “1968.”

  “Yes.” He says that as though he already knows and is simply agreeing. “I would shake your hand,” he goes on, “but I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, I suppose I don’t.”

  He reaches out his hand to me, and though his flesh looks perfectly solid, when I try to clasp it, it somehow isn’t there.

  “We’re not allowed to touch,” he explains.

  “Not allowed?”

  “So it seems. Or not able. I don’t fully understand.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “Well.” He points to the wing chair beside the desk. “Would you like to sit a moment?”

  I am being invited to sit in my own chair. “Thank you,” I say. We both sit down. “My name is Sheldon Crane.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Oh? But then, I suppose you would. Since you are—in the future. But I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

  “My apologies,” he says quickly. “I should have introduced myself earlier. My name is Gavan Valdez.”

  Gavan Valdez. I am amused. The name seems the result of an odd coupling between an Irish lass and a Spanish gentleman. And yet he is so fair, he doesn’t appear to have anything of Spain in him.

  “Valdez,” I say. “That’s some kind of Spanish name, isn’t it?”

  “Hispanic, yes.”

  “You don’t look Spanish.”

  “My mother married a man from Costa Rica when I was four. He adopted me.”

  “I see. And now you own this house?”

  “Yes.” He is distracted momentarily by the television screen. Something has happened to the reception and there are spirals, like those Slinky toys, rolling from side to side. He touches what looks like a typewriter keyboard on the desk in front of the TV, and the picture returns. But there is no sound.

  “What kind of television is that?” I ask.

  “Oh.” He smiles. “It’s not a television. It’s a computer.”

  I’m baffled. A computer? “But computers fill whole rooms.”

  “Not anymore they don’t.” He looks amused as he says that.

  I ask, “Why do you have a computer in your home?”

  “Most people do today. They’re called PCs. Personal computers.”

  “And everyone has one?”

  “Not everyone. But most people. The way most people had TVs in their homes in 1968.”

  I am awed by this. “We have gone far then, haven’t we?”

  “In some ways, yes.”

  “But what do you do with—this thing? This computer?”

  “Well, before you came upstairs, I was—well, I was kind of using it the way people used to use typewriters. It’s called Word Processing. You type on the keyboard. See, it’s laid out just like a typewriter, but it has more keys. Function keys. The words go into the computer and when you’re finished, you can print it off here.” He pats a boxy thing on the desk beside the computer. “I was just working on a lesson plan for the fall semester. I teach at Ridgecrest College. It’s just up the road from here, about five miles.”

  I nod. I’m familiar with the college, but I’m intrigued with the machine. “So it’s a modern typewriter,” I conclude.

  “Yes, but it can do so much more than that. I mean, it can give you all sorts of information. Anything you want to know.”

  “Do you mean, you can ask it a question and it’ll tell you the answer?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But how does it work?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I can—”

  He i
s interrupted by a tap on the door. Before I can say, “Come in,” the door opens a crack and Linda pokes her head in the room.

  “Dad,” she says. “You still up?”

  “Linda.” I rise from the chair. “I didn’t hear you come home.”

  “What are you doing? I thought I heard you talking to someone.” She’s all the way inside my room now.

  “I’m—”

  But Gavan Valdez and his machine are gone. He must have disappeared the moment Linda tapped on the door.

  “I’m just getting ready for bed.”

  “Oh.” That seems to satisfy her.

  “You must be pretty tired yourself.”

  She shrugs. “I want to ask you something.”

  “Sure.” Can she see that I am delighted? I am thrilled that she wants to speak to me.

  “I want to call Monica and see how the guys are doing back home. I know it’s long distance and all, but I thought now that I’m working, I can pay for it. I can call tomorrow when the rates are cheaper.”

  I wave my hand. “You go ahead and talk to Monica all you want, honey,” I offer. “And you don’t have to pay for it.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You let me worry about the bills.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course. I should have told you to go ahead and call sooner.”

  She looks at me like she’s not sure who I am. Finally she shrugs again. “Well, okay. Thanks, Dad.”

  I’m hoping she’ll kiss me goodnight like she used to do when she was a little girl, but that is too much to hope for. She smiles at me briefly, though, before she leaves. At least that’s something. Tomorrow she may be as grumpy as ever, but for the moment, in the warmth of that frail smile, I count myself blessed.

  26

  Linda

  Sunday, August 4, 1968

  SO THERE’S BEEN a double murder over in Asheville, and whoever did it is on the loose. Yeah, well, that’s just great. Here I am, home alone, reading the Sunday paper while the rest of the family is off to church, and for all I know there could be some creep with a hatchet wandering around outside the house right now. I mean, Black Mountain is what—ten miles from Asheville? He could have made it this far in one night even if he’s on foot. Elderly couple slain in their home, it says here. The perpetrator should be considered armed and dangerous. And Dad thinks we’re safer down here than we were in Abington. Oh sure. See if he still thinks as much if he comes home and finds me hacked to death—

  “So what’s the news?”

  I drop the paper and scream. This is it! The ax murderer is in the house, and I’m going to die! I’m—

  “Hey, Linda, calm down! What’s the matter?”

  “Austin! Oh, it’s you!”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I’m still trying to catch my breath when I say, “I just about had a heart attack, you jerk. How can you sneak up on me like that?”

  “I didn’t sneak up on you. I was just sitting here and then suddenly, there you were.”

  “Oh. It’s …” I don’t know how to continue.

  “A little hard to get used to?”

  “Yeah. You could say that. So, what are you doing?”

  He’s in the chair Dad usually sits in. He waves a magazine and lets it fall to his lap. “Reading. Like you.”

  “Oh. Is it Sunday there?”

  “Yes. Sunday morning.”

  “You alone?”

  “For the moment. The family’s at church.”

  “And you didn’t go with them?”

  He looks disgusted. “Churches are just tools in the hands of the capitalists.”

  Well, I’m stumped. Where in the world did he get that? I’m not fond of churches myself, but this is a whole new take on things. “What in the world are you talking about?” I ask.

  “You know, the rich want the poor to believe in heaven so they’ll be resigned to their lot on earth. They can spend their whole lives breaking their backs and never having enough to eat, but that’s all right, so long as they get their heavenly reward in the end. If the poor are resigned and don’t go after their due, then there’s even more for the rich. The rich can keep getting richer, and the poor won’t do anything about it.”

  “Hold on a minute, Austin. Just listen to you, talking that way when your own family’s rich.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Vernita Ponder.”

  “Her again?”

  I shrug, nod. “She said your family’s not from around here, but that you came down from Chicago or someplace because your dad had TB.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And she said you were rich.”

  “Yeah, well, my family may be well-off, but I’m not. I don’t believe in being rich.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, I don’t. You know what the rich do? They spend their lives dancing on the misery of a million people.”

  Holy cow! Give this guy a soapbox, will you? I mean, is he practicing for the annual convention of American Commies or something? For a moment, I’m speechless. Then I say, “You have some pretty fancy ideas.”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing fancy about it. I just don’t like social injustice. I don’t like the fact that capitalism breeds inequality. I think it’s dead wrong. And I intend to do something about it.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  He waves the magazine again. “I’m going to join the American Socialist Party and work to change the system. It’s the only way. We can’t make any progress as a nation as long as we continue as a capitalist country.”

  For a minute, we just sit and stare at each other. Finally I say, “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  “Well,” he says, “how come you’re not at church with your family this morning?”

  “Because I think it’s a bunch of baloney.”

  “So, see there?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got the right idea. Of course, it’s a bunch of baloney. Having faith in some unseen God is just foolishness, and all the church does is pander to people’s ignorance. It keeps them ignorant instead of allowing them to progress.”

  “Well, whatever you say, Austin. I just think religion’s totally irrelevant. Bunch of hypocrites, like my dad.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Yeah. He was a pastor, you know. Up in Pennsylvania. He—well, you could say he had a fall from grace. So here we are. You know what I just found out from Gail at work, though? Billy Graham lives in the next town up the road. Can you beat it? My dad falls out of the pulpit and here we land practically in Billy Graham’s backyard. How’s that for crazy?”

  He’s looking at me with a puzzled expression. “Who’s Billy Graham?” he asks.

  “Who’s Billy—” And then I remember. “Oh yeah. Never mind. I keep forgetting you’re in another time.”

  He smiles a little. “I keep forgetting about it myself. So,” he nods toward the newspaper in my lap, “what’s the news?”

  I suppose I could tell him about the double murder, but I don’t really want to think about that kind of stuff too much. “Most of it’s just a huge bore,” I say. “It’s an election year. You know, vote for this person, vote for that person, blah blah blah. Like it really matters who makes it into the White House.”

  “You think it doesn’t matter?” he asks, looking steamed. “It makes all the difference in the world, who gets into the White House! Listen, it’s an election year here too and …” Suddenly he stops and looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Say, Linda. You know who wins, don’t you? You know who wins the election in 1916. Who is it?”

  Jumping Jehoshaphat! Like I know who’s running for president in 1916. He’s asking the girl who got a D in history two years in a row and that by the skin of my teeth.

  “I don’t think I can tell you,” I say. There, that’s one way not to look stupid.

  “Why not?” He looks offended.

  “We
ll, it just wouldn’t be right.”

  He starts to say something, stops himself. Then he smiles. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll find out soon enough anyhow. If Wilson’s reelected, I just hope he’ll keep us out of the war.”

  “The war?”

  “The war in Europe.”

  Now I remember. Criminy! How could I forget? Lots of young men were buried in France, Mom said. “The First World War,” I say aloud.

  “What’d you say?” Austin asks.

  “The First World War,” I repeat breathlessly.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  I look at Austin and feel frightened. More than a week has passed since Mom and I were in the graveyard, and I had almost forgotten about our talk of war and of Austin’s not coming back. “Listen, Austin,” I say, “if the United States does get involved in the war, you won’t go, will you? I mean, you’ll burn your draft card like the other guys are doing, won’t you?”

  “Burn my draft card? Who’s burning their draft cards?”

  “Oh yeah,” I sigh. “I forgot. That’s today. That’s Vietnam.”

  “Vietnam?”

  “Oh, man, I’m getting confused. But I mean if there’s a war, you’ll try to get out of going, won’t you?”

  He looks at me a long moment. “I don’t believe in war,” he says. “War is something socialism will do away with.”

  “It is?”

  He leans forward in his chair. “Don’t you understand, Linda? In this country, right now, we’re in a class war. Because of capitalism, we’ve got the rich and we’ve got the poor. The poor are struggling under the burden of injustice, though some of them, some of them are trying to lift themselves up, trying to find some sort of equality, but all the while the rich are fighting to keep them down. The whole system’s built on greed, you know. But, you see, once we can get rid of private ownership, and once we overthrow capitalism and replace it with socialism, once the class war is won—and I mean, won all over the world, not just here but everywhere—then everyone will be free. There won’t be any more exploitation or misery or inequality or war. We’ll all be cooperating with each other instead of competing. We’ll be working together, helping each other, living in peace. Can you imagine it, Linda? Can you see it?”