by Rodney Jones
My mouth was full, so I just nodded.
“Anyhow, he’ll be paying a visit here tomorrow morning. I thought it’d be nice.” She glanced at my uncle, who was going at his cereal as if each little nibble was a chore.
He had only two weeks left of his sentence, but since our arrest, his life leaked from him like sand from a sieve. I tried to get him to eat more, but no amount of urging or begging was going to improve his appetite.
“Mr. Paulson?” Mrs. McNeil bent forward. “Should I maybe fetch Dr. White for you?”
He dropped his spoon in his bowl and shook his head.
“Sir?” I put my bowl aside then went over and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Uncle Ed?”
He closed his eyes and whispered, “There’s something I need you to tell Lil.”
“She’s on her way, sir,” I said. I hoped it was true. I feared that his yearning to see Lil was the only thing keeping him alive. “I think you should tell her yourself, sir.”
Mrs. McNeil took our privy pail. The deputy stretched and yawned then rose from his stool to lock the cell door.
I looked at my uncle. He was sitting there with a spoon in his hand but doing nothing with it. “Is that all you’re gonna eat?”
Uncle Ed drew in a breath but didn’t answer. I took his bowl, set it down beside him, then returned to my bunk and forced down the rest of my breakfast.
A short while later, the pair returned. Again, the deputy unlocked the cell door.
As Mrs. McNeil set down our pail, her eyes flitted from my uncle’s sagging face to his unfinished breakfast. “I’ll leave that. He may want more in a bit.”
“Ma’am,” I said, “may I ask a favor of you?”
“A favor?”
“I have a letter to mail but no envelope.”
“Oh, no worry. I’ll see it gets posted.”
“I very much appreciate it, ma’am.” I handed her the letter. I had folded it and written, “Miss Tess McKinnon, West View Road, Wallingford, VT,” on the outside.
She glanced at it then looked up at me. I braced myself for the questions, but she simply nodded and turned to leave. In the meantime, Mr. Hoffman, apparently too tired to stay on his feet, had slumped back down on the stool in the corridor. As Mrs. McNeil brushed past, he started as if he’d been poked in the ribs. Yawning, he got up and followed her out.
I stared at the open cell door. I’d fantasized often about such an opportunity, planning to find my way to the ribbon place and disappear—forever beyond the reach of Henry McNeil. I listened but heard nothing. Stepping into the corridor, I peered toward the office door. It had been left ajar, no more than an inch but open. I looked back at my uncle.
He was watching me. “Go on,” he whispered then closed his eyes. “Go.”
Go? Was it that simple? The deputy would likely be sitting at the desk immediately on the other side of the door. I pictured myself sneaking up on him dozing in his chair. I would grab his gun then march him into that last cell. I tiptoed up to the door and peeked through the gap. All I could see was a narrow strip of the bare wood floor dappled with sunlight from a window I couldn’t see. My pounding heart probably drowned out the sound of the deputy’s snoring, if that was what he was doing.
I figured I had two options: I could rush into the office and take the deputy by surprise, or I could wait there behind the door for him to step through then jump him. But then Mrs. McNeil would be just behind him. I didn’t know how she’d react, and I really didn’t want to involve her.
I looked at my uncle—a man with all the fight drained from him, losing his grip on life. He wouldn’t make it far in his condition, nor would I if I had to move at his pace. But he was like a father to me. I couldn’t leave him there to die alone; I’d carry that shame for the rest of my days.
A distinct metallic click came from the office. I froze. I heard the squawk of a door being pushed open, the scrape of a chair, then the shuffle of boots on the wooden floor. I quickly slipped back into the cell, sat at the foot of my uncle’s bunk, and held my breath. My uncle’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. The vague murmur of a lady’s voice leaked through the gap in the office door. A muffled exchange followed—the lady, the man, the lady, then the man. I couldn’t make out what was said or who the woman was.
It came to me that I should close the cell door. I stood and took a step forward. Just then, the office door swung open. Mr. Hoffman entered the corridor, and directly behind him was my aunt.
The deputy glanced from the open cell door to me, his expression shifting from bafflement, to chagrin, and then anger. “Ya wouldn’t have made it far.” He banged the door shut, locked it, then turned to my aunt. “Ma’am, if you’d care to sit.” The deputy slid a stool toward the steel bars.
“Please, I’d just as soon—”
Uncle Ed stirred. “Lil?”
Aunt Lil stepped up close to the bars. “Oh, Ed, aren’t you a sight?” She spun around toward the deputy. “I need to be in there with my husband.” She shook a finger toward our cell. “Can’t you see?”
“I’m sorry. We can’t allow that, ma’am.”
“What law will I need to break?”
“Ma’am?”
“You can see he’s not well. And this may be my last…” She put a hand to her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Sir,” I said, “please. If I was going to give you any trouble, I would’ve already.” I nodded toward the cell door.
He stood there for a few seconds then sighed. “Blast it.” He unlocked the door. “I’ll have to lock ya in with ’em, ma’am. And ya can’t be too long, bein’ the sheriff could show up at any time. He’ll not cotton to this; I’m sure of that.”
The moment Aunt Lil stepped into our cell was like the sun peeking out from behind a stubborn bout of clouds. “Oh, Edwin, this is all so ungodly wrong.” She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You don’t belong in here. Neither of you do.”
I’d never seen my uncle cry, but his eyes filled with tears ready to fall. “I’ve been a bit under the weather,” he said.
“And I can see it hasn’t been picnic weather.” Aunt Lil looked around the cell. “Is there water in that jug?”
I picked up the water jug, filled the tin cup, and handed it to her.
She lifted the cup to my uncle’s mouth. “Your lips are cracked as baked mud.” She glanced down at the bowl of cereal I’d shoved under the edge of his bunk. “Is that your breakfast?”
Uncle Ed took a sip of the water. “You’re staying at your cousin’s place?”
“They’ve made me a bed in the parlor. I haven’t yet had a chance to visit with them. I pretty much came directly here.”
He took another sip. “Lil, I’m afraid I’ll not be much good to you once I’m free of here.”
“Oh, hush. We’ll get you home and fed proper. You’ll find your health and be putting things back square before you know it.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Who’s minding the animals?”
“Is that how you’ve been spending your time here, worrying over silly matters? The Heming boy. And there’s no need for you to wear yourself down gabbing. You rest. I’ll do the gabbing. Now that I’m close by, I can visit as often as I want. You may well grow tired of my company.”
My uncle smiled—the first smile I’d seen on his face since my return.
chapter twenty-nine
Tess
The tinkle of a bell came from the door of the Jacobsons’ store. The bonnet-shopping lady exited and headed up Strongs Avenue. I watched her step past a neatly lettered sign mounted near the corner of the building: Rutland Herald - Daily - 1 Cent. A penny for a paper?
I thought of the promise I’d made to take out some personal ads. With only six days before John’s trial, I wasn’t sure when I’d find the time for that. A murmur came from my left. Two wom
en shifted their eyes away when I caught them looking at me.
I was still looking for a way to make contact with Abigail when the idea came to me: Just write her a note. I dug out a notepad and pen from the side pocket of my daypack.
Abigail,
John and I need your help. I’ll wait for you across the street at the train depot. And please, it’s vitally important that you not tell anyone of this.
Tess.
I tore out the page and folded it into a little square. About a block up Washington Street, a gang of kids were kicking a tin can back and forth across the road. I was considering approaching them when a boy came barreling around the back corner of the depot.
“Hey, kid,” I said.
He stopped. “Sir?” He was about nine or ten and dressed much like the boy I had encountered in Wallingford, right down to the suspenders and bare feet.
“What’s your name?”
He tilted his head and squinted. “Joey Patrick.”
“Can you do me a favor, Joey?”
The boy glanced over at the other kids. “Depends.”
“Hold on.” I fished around in my daypack for an appropriate enticement. Unfortunately, everything I’d packed was pretty much essential. But then I grabbed the half-eaten protein bar. “You want this?” I held out the bar.
He took a step closer. “What is it?”
“Uh, a candy bar.” At his puzzled look, I added, “A chocolate bar.” I took a step toward him, thinking, Don’t accept candy from strangers. “You can have it if you deliver this note to the lady in the store for me.” I pointed toward the other side of the street.
He took the bar, sniffed it, then studied the wrapper. “What is it?” He seemed more interested in the packaging than its contents. It hadn’t occurred to me that they didn’t have cellophane in 1875… or plastic, for that matter.
I held out my hand. “If you don’t want it…”
He pulled the candy closer to his chest. “Just give the lady a note? That’s all?”
I nodded. “Give it to Abigail Jacobson.”
“I know who she is.”
“Good. Then you’ll do it?”
He looked at the store. “All right.”
I handed him the note. “Oh, and show her the candy bar, okay?”
“Pardon?”
“Tell her I gave you the candy bar. Make sure you show it to her.”
He shrugged. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t tell anyone else where you got it.”
“No, sir.”
I gave him a stern look. “No one.”
“I won’t tell nobody.” He took off across the street.
He entered the store, then a few minutes later, the woman in the light-gray dress peered out the window. The boy stood next to her, pointing in my direction. I didn’t know if I should wave or what. I lifted my daypack, pushed my arms through the straps, then walked toward the entrance of the depot. The red-brick building was wrapped on all four sides by an ornately trimmed veranda. Inside, to the left of a wide aisleway, were four long benches. The ticket office was to the right with schedules posted on the wall and an open, arched window with a split door to its left. I took a seat near a front window, so I could keep an eye out for Abigail.
A man with a bushy mustache leaned through the ticket window. His scalp was shaved up the sides, and the hair on top of his head reminded me of a pair of sleeping hamsters. “You waiting for the southbound, sir?”
“No, sir,” I said. “I’m waiting to meet someone, if that’s okay.”
“Uh, where you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Springfield.” I tipped my head toward the east.
“You don’t sound like you’re from these parts.”
The sales lady from the store stepped through the door. She was a stout woman in her early twenties. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun. She glanced first at me then addressed the ticket agent. “Pardon me, Mr. York, but have you seen a young lady with red hair, about so tall?” She raised a hand level with her nose.
I stood. “Abigail?”
She stared at me for a moment, then her hands flew up to her mouth. Her eyes expanded to the size of nickels. “Oh.”
I nodded toward the door. “Can we go somewhere to talk?” My throat was beginning to hurt a little from the strain of keeping my voice so low.
“Dear Lord.” Her mouth hung open. “We… I thought you were… the newspaper said—”
“I know, I know. But let’s—”
“And you have a…” She raised a finger to her upper lip.
“Yeah, uh, but can we just go?” I stepped past her and out the door.
She followed me, and we sat on a bench on the veranda, well away from the ears on the street. I explained that my mustache was fake then lifted my hat a little to show her how I kept my hair hidden.
She stared at me. “Good Lord, Tess. I was horrified by the news of your… well, I thought… we all… I mean, we were so shocked. But how did you… are you…?” She shook her head.
I sighed. “You wouldn’t believe it.”
She leveled a stern gaze on me. “Who are you? Really?”
I had to somehow gain Abigail’s trust and do it quickly. I dug down into a small compartment inside my daypack and pulled out my driver’s license, which I’d brought for that very purpose. I took a deep breath and handed it to her. “That’s me. My driver’s license.”
She studied the card, flexing it and examining its front and back, before actually reading it. “Enhanced operator’s license? What’s that mean?”
I wasn’t sure, but she didn’t need to know that. “It just means it’s fancier than the old ones.” I made a no-big-deal face and shook my head.
She gripped the card and twisted it back and forth. “What is this?”
“Oh. It’s plastic, a synthetic material.”
“A what?”
“I don’t know. Unreal? They make it out of oil somehow, I think.”
She looked completely mystified. “Where’d you get it?”
“The DMV, here in Rutland. Anyone who drives a car has to have a driver’s license.”
“A cart?”
“A car. C-A-R. A motor vehicle… in the future.”
“Uh.” She leaned away and scrunched up her brow.
Claiming to be Santa’s illegitimate daughter might have earned a similar response. “Please, I need you to believe me.” I begged with my eyes and my hands, putting my whole body into it. “See, I can’t go back. Look right there.” I pointed at my date of birth on the license. “November 4, 1991. That’s me, my birthday. An arrogant, egotistical Scorpio.”
She stared down at the card but didn’t respond.
“This is the second time I’ve been here. The first time, well, yes, I was shot and killed or whatever, but it wasn’t John.” I shook my head. “He didn’t do it. The sheriff shot me. I don’t know why. I guess he hated me, or hates me… the sheriff, I mean. Anyway, after I was killed, John tried to—”
“Tess, please. This isn’t…” She blinked and tipped her head to the side. “The sheriff shot you? I’ve never had any doubt regarding John’s innocence. But this doesn’t make sense, Tess. How can you be sitting here telling me this if you were…?” She shook her head.
“I know. I know…”
“Well, who was killed then?”
“I guess I was, but…” I searched for a way to explain but quickly realized that no matter how I approached it, it was going to sound completely wacko. “Jesus Christ.” I let out a huff. “This is freakin’ hard.”
Her head jerked back as though I’d just slapped her. She placed a finger over her lips. She glanced over her shoulder then stared at me. “Tess, you really shouldn’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Uh, we
ll, you just blasphemed.”
“I did?” I mentally reviewed what I’d said. “Jesus? That’s blasphemy?”
Abigail cringed and frowned.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I shook my head. “Really.”
“I’ve always wondered about you.” She looked down at my feet. “The shoes you were wearing, the white ones with the design on the soles.”
I lifted my pant legs, revealing my brown dung stompers. “It’s not easy finding nineteenth-century fashions in 2009. How are these?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m trying to explain, but it’s confusing to me, too.”
“Well, try again, slow and orderly if you could, please.”
I started at the beginning, giving her the whole story. I told her everything I’d learned from John about his first visit to the future and my original trip to the past. I told her of the letter his aunt had written, what I’d learned about the trial, his uncle dying from an infection, and then John being hanged. The whole thing sounded ridiculous even to my ears, but Abigail listened patiently, giving me her full attention. She stopped me now and then with questions. I pressed on, explaining the sheriff’s role, Mr. Morse, the coroner, Hugh Stewart.
At the mention of Hugh, she interrupted me. “Hugh Stewart? This is the second time I’ve heard that name today. A young lady came into the store for a dress pattern earlier, a gal from Weston, Zella Shaw, all excited about a dance she was planning to attend. She said that Mr. Stewart was announcing their courtship at the dance.”
“Was she blond?”
Abigail shook her head. “Her eyes seemed perfectly fine.”
“No, no, light-colored hair.”
“Oh, blond… yes.”
“And pretty?”
“Very.”
“That’s the guy,” I said. “I think he’s the one who started all the crap.” I rubbed my chin. “Did she say when the dance would be?”
“She did. And I remember well, being it was an odd time for a social. Friday evening, at the Blisses’ farm in Weston.”
“I need your help,” I said. “I don’t know how things work here. Everything’s so different. I’m not even sure how to behave, for one thing. I mean, when I talk to people, they stare at me like I’m from Mars. And another thing, I have a ton of silver but no money. And John’s uncle. I have medicine that could save him. How do I get it to him? There’s not much time.” I felt as though I might be on the verge of tears. “I’ll pay you for your help.”