by Rodney Jones
She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, pshaw.”
“This mustache… do I look like a girl with a serious hormone imbalance?”
She studied me. “I have no idea what that is, but”—she tapped her cheek—“you have a bit of dirt on your cheek there. The other side, too.”
“Yeah, well…” I dragged a sleeve across my cheeks. “I should’ve gotten the matching goatee.”
She laughed. “So you’d look like the bearded lady?”
“Okay.” I reached up, peeled the mustache off, and dropped it into my pocket.
“What does okay mean?”
I gaped at her and thought back to how often I must have said that since I had arrived. No wonder people kept looking at me strangely. I felt as though I were in another country, one in which people spoke English but differently, like Ireland or somewhere like that. I explained the meaning of “okay” and made a mental note to not use the word anymore.
Abigail was kind enough to loan me a few dollars for a room at the inn. She also gave me directions to the post office, so I could mail a package to the jail. I then gave her details about the silver problem.
“I’ll ask my father about it… discreetly,” she said. “He’ll know who you can trust.”
I noticed a man carrying a long metal rod that looked like a harpoon with a small flame at the end. “What is that? What’s he doing?”
Abigail gave me that familiar puzzled look. “Him?”
The man shoved the fire end of the rod up into a boxy light fixture hanging from a post on the street corner.
“Is he lighting candles?”
She seemed astonished. “You’ve never seen gas lamps?”
Slowly, one by one, the street lights were lit.
“Oh, they’re so cool. I mean… charming.”
“They don’t have gas lamps in the future?”
I watched as the man lit another. “No.”
The light felt almost lonely but kind of romantic, as if it were beckoning lovers. The streets were empty, however. The silvery glow of the lamps, along with the quietness, only added to the surrealism of my being there—a witness to something impossible.
Abigail stood. “I really must be going. Mother will pitch a fit should I miss supper.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve taken up your whole evening, haven’t I?”
“Yes, but it’s been a most fascinating one.”
We agreed to meet again the following day then said our goodnights. I mounted Victoria and headed for the inn. On the way up the hill, I became aware of a new smell. I sniffed the air. The usual stink was present, but competing with the odor were the scents of ham and beans, pork chops, fried chicken, baking bread, and who knew what other painstakingly home-cooked delicacies. My stomach growled.
I turned down Main Street, which was dark and empty at that hour. The leather of my saddle creaked in time to the soft clops of Victoria’s hooves. The sheer curtains of the homes lining the street glowed from the candles and oil lamps hidden behind them. And those nineteenth-century families—what were they doing in there? Watching shadows on the walls? Waiting for satellite TV to be invented?
As I arrived at the edge of town, I was met with the drone of a thousand crickets. A three-quarter waxing moon hung beneath a wedge of clouds just over the mountain ridge. The inn cast a black shadow across the road. The building stood alone, away from the rest of the village, as though in anticipation of the future. It would eventually be replaced by a restaurant, a convenience store, and a car dealership. And then, another half mile south, where a small farm stood, a mall would someday go up.
I hitched Victoria to a post out front then walked up the steps. The porch was lined with benches, a couple small wooden tables and, to the left of the front door, a rocking chair. A faint glow came from a small window near the top of the door.
I tapped on the door. No one came. I twisted the knob, pushed the door partway open, and stuck my head in. “Hello?”
When there was no response, I stepped inside then stood there listening for movement, voices, or any signs of life. Nothing.
I followed a runner through the foyer to the intersection of two halls, left and right. Straight ahead stood a wide staircase. To the right of the stairs was a corner counter, behind which was a small room that I assumed was the office. The area was dimly lit by a single lamp shaped like a mushroom cloud ringed with glowing radioactive red and pink roses. The place was silent, no TV chatter or humming and groaning of vending machines—nothing but the chirp of a cricket somewhere behind the counter. I looked for a counter bell, as I’d seen in the movies—tap tap, ding ding—but found nothing like that.
I cleared my throat. “Ahem.” Then again, louder. The cricket responded with another chirp.
Tired, hungry, just wanting a quick shower and a bed, I let out a sigh. “Hello?” I stood there, listening. “Hello?”
I turned to my left and peered down the hallway into the darkness, then turned to the right and stared into more of the same. I spotted a cord dangling from a small pulley fastened to the ceiling. The wallpaper, a Victorian jungle of kitschy symmetry, seemed to swallow everything around it, including the cord as it disappeared through a tiny hole high in the wall. I gave the string a tug and heard a muted jingle.
A few moments later, the muffled voice of an old lady came from the door behind the counter. “Who is it?”
“Uh…” Jack White? No. I had taken off the mustache.
“What’s that? I didn’t hear you.”
“Charlotte,” I said, though I wasn’t sure whether that was a nineteenth-century name or not. Wasn’t there a Charlotte in Gone with the Wind?
The door opened a crack. “Who?”
“Charlotte Fletcher. I’d like a room, please.”
A squat, round-faced old woman wearing a ruffled dingy white gown stepped out and shuffled toward the counter. She squinted at me then leaned to one side as though attempting to see beyond me. “Where’s your folks, missy?”
I took a quick peek behind me. “Just me.”
She cocked her head. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.” My birthday was only a few months away, so I figured that didn’t count as a lie, especially since I was from a whole different century.
She made a sour face and shook her head. “You ain’t no eighteen. You’re fourteen, if that. And you’ve no business out on the road by yourself at such an hour, gettin’ me out of bed for nothin’. Now git.” She waved a hand as though shooing a fly.
“I’m eighteen, ma’am.”
“Pshaw. You’re as flat as a flapjack.” She placed her hands over her breasts.
Oh, crap! My boobs were still squeezed tight to my chest by the elastic bandages. “Ma’am, I’m really tired, and I need a bed.” I took off my hat, set it on the counter then began unbuttoning my shirt.
Her eyes bulged. “What are you doing?”
I opened my shirt. “See? I wrapped them so I’d look like a boy.”
“Button your shirt. My Lord.” She glanced to her left and right then back to me. “Where’re you from?”
“Springfield.”
“You walked?”
“I have a horse.” I threw a thumb up over my shoulder.
“Why in the dickens you goin’ ’round dressed like a fellow?”
I dropped my head and shifted my weight from foot to foot. “So they don’t bother me.”
She appeared to weigh that information. “Well, go on and git your horse bedded.” She nodded to her right. “You’ll find fresh straw and feed in the back stall.” She reached down under the counter, produced a lantern, then lit it. “You can have the room up the stairs, the end of the hall and left.” She slid the lantern toward me. “Just the one night?”
“I don’t know. Two, maybe.”
“It’ll cost you a dol
lar and a half for the two, then if you want another, a half dollar more. Breakfast is at eight. And absolutely no visitors.”
I probably would’ve forgotten about Victoria had the old lady not mentioned the stable. I didn’t even own a dog, so I definitely wasn’t used to taking care of an animal. Plus, I had been about to leave over a hundred pounds of silver parked out by the busiest road in the county with only four buckles keeping it from the hands of thieves. Brilliant.
The next morning, I enjoyed a hot breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham, and buttermilk biscuits, for which I expressed abundant gratitude and praise as it more than made up for my crappy room. The old lady, appropriately named Mrs. Hyde, seemed puzzled by my breasts and asked a hundred nosy questions over breakfast, reserving a few for the other guests—two men on their way to Barre. Then a young goofy-looking kid came shuffling into the dining room, followed by his father, a well-groomed, intelligent-looking man with piercing dark eyes and an unusually wide mouth.
“Mornin’,” the man said as he scooted into a chair at the table. He nodded at the two men. Then his eyes locked onto mine. “John Coolidge,” he said.
Beneath the table, my knees shook. “Scarlett… Charlotte Fletcher.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Fletcher.” He turned to the boy. “Calvin, we do not lick the serving spoons.”
There were questions from the other guests—Where you from? Where you headed? What’s your pa do?—to which I gave the most economical replies possible. Every time I spoke, I felt Mr. Coolidge’s suspicious eyes on me.
Though the food was good, I was glad to have breakfast behind me. I went up to my room to wash up and brush my teeth, thinking that once I got the silver banked, I’d request an upgrade on my room. Instead of a shower, I was provided with a pitcher of cold water and a salad bowl. Really? And in a drawer, I found a white ceramic pan-like thing that, once I deduced its purpose, evoked some less-than-lovely pictures in my mind. No, thank you. I’ll wait.
I fed and watered Victoria then loaded her up for the trip into town. Downtown Rutland was overrun by bun-headed women in long bulky dresses and mustached men in sleeves and suspenders. Every one of them wore a hat of some kind.
First, I went to the post office. I stood at a small table in the back corner of the lobby and wrote down a list of instructions for taking the medicine. I didn’t include anything more. I was taking no chances.
I took the paper over to the clerk. “Do you offer expedited service?”
“Pardon, miss?”
“Like a Pony Express service?” I said.
He smiled, dipped a pen in a bottle of ink, and scribbled “URGENT” on the outside of the package. He turned and hollered, “Robert!”
“Yeah?” came from the room behind him.
“You haven’t made the east fifty-five yet, have you?”
“No, sir.”
“Make sure this goes with it.” He held up my package as though the other guy could see it.
“Yes, sir.”
The clerk turned back to me. “Three cents, miss. Pony Express service.” He winked.
I paid and left. Heading down the street, I noticed a sweet cinnamon aroma overtaking the usual landfill odors. A little farther down, I discovered the source: a bakery with fresh-baked breads, pastries, cakes, pies, and cookies teasingly displayed in the window. I wanted to stop and explore, but it would be torturous, as I didn’t want to spend any more of the money Abigail had loaned me.
I hitched Victoria out in front of the Jacobsons’ store then stepped up to the window to the left of the entrance in search of Abigail. She’d warned me that her brother Paul would likely recognize me, so I kept my head down and the rim of my hat low as I pretended to window shop.
I counted five people in the store. The only person I could identify was Abigail. When she turned to get something from a shelf, she acknowledged me with a nod, held up a finger, then went back to the lady she’d been helping. I stepped around to the side of the building to wait.
As part of my preparation for coming, I’d spent an evening scouring the internet for photos of the period. Every photograph I found was black and white. Of course, I knew it would not be black and white there, but in some respects, there was less color than in my time—whites were not as white, blacks not so black, houses were mostly off white or shades of gray and, more often than not, in need of a new paint job. I did see an occasional yellow, gold, brown, and even a pink house. And the colors of the women’s clothing were more varied than I’d anticipated too.
Abigail emerged from the store. She wore a long, bulky plaid dress. In one hand, she carried a small brown paper bag. When she saw me, she brought her free hand to her mouth to hide her smile. “Oh. You’ve matured.”
“Good grief.” I laughed. “I had the hardest time convincing Mrs. Hyde that I wasn’t a twelve-year-old runaway.”
She held the bag out toward me. “Do you like almond drops?”
I grinned—the sugar demon awakening within me. “Thank you very much.”
“I have a sweet tooth. I often make the mistake of assuming everyone does.”
“Well, you hit the nail on the head this time.” I shoved my hand into the bag, grabbed a candy, popped it into my mouth, and crunched down on it.
“Hit the nail…? Now that’s clever.” She nodded then glanced over her shoulder. “I talked to my father last night. He suggested you see Mr. Walker at the Bank of Rutland.” She pointed up Grove Street. “It’s there on the corner. How are you going to do that? Your name, I mean.”
“I’ll have to give them a phony one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Don’t you think it’d be too risky using my real name?”
“Yes, you’re right. Everyone’s still talking about the fire. And that other matter.” She raised her eyebrows.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Well, if you should run into a problem, I think my father would be able to help. Mr. Walker is a good friend of his. He trusts him.”
“Will they want an ID?”
“About what?”
I paused for a moment. “No, I meant, will they want proof of who I am?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll accept whatever name you give them as long as it comes with money.”
chapter thirty
John
Aunt Lil came in early Wednesday afternoon for a second visit. The local pastor, Mr. Anson Davis, arrived a short while later with Mrs. McNeil and a few other members of his congregation. Standing in the corridor with the others, the pastor gave a brief sermon about forgiveness then said a prayer and led his parishioners in a hymn.
Once Mr. Davis and his flock left, Aunt Lil served some chicken soup and biscuits. She invited the sheriff’s wife to stay and eat with us. “I’d so appreciate a chance to repay some of the kindness you’ve shown my family. I don’t know how they would’ve fared had it not been for you.”
“Oh, well…” She picked at the ruffles at the end of her dress sleeve. “Keeps me from idle hours.” Mrs. McNeil, begging my aunt’s pardon, insisted she couldn’t stay.
The next morning, the deputy and Mrs. McNeil showed up at their usual time with coffee and cooked grains. I helped my uncle sit up so he could eat. He appeared noticeably older every day—his eyes sunken and cheekbones protruding.
As Mrs. McNeil and the deputy were about to leave, the deputy turned to me. “Oh, I nearly forgot. This just arrived.” He handed me an envelope.
“John Bartley, Woodstock Jail, Woodstock, VT” was printed on the front, and in large letters above that: URGENT. There was no sender noted anywhere on the envelope, though the postmark indicated it had come through Rutland. The envelope contained a sheet of paper folded around another page rolled up into a tight tube and pinched over at the ends. I laid that to the side and unfolded the first sheet.
Medicine f
or your uncle. Two pills each day, one in the morning and one in the evening, until they are gone. It is important that they all be taken, even if he starts feeling better.
Unrolling the tube, I found twelve glossy white pills. The only pills I’d ever seen were those my mother, and later my aunt, kept on hand: Beecham’s Pills and Dr. Morse’s Pills—grayish-white pills about the size and shape of a cherry pit—nothing like the ones from the package. They were oval, like little ivory buttons, neatly embossed with the number 93 on one side and 5194 on the other.
I looked again at the note. It had been printed in blue ink with peculiar-looking block letters. I had never seen a pen that laid down ink so uniformly. I showed the pills to the deputy and Mrs. McNeil.
Mrs. McNeil asked, “Who sent them?”
I shrugged. “No idea.”
“The letter doesn’t say what it is?”
“Medicine is all it says.”
“I wouldn’t take nothin’ I didn’t know what it was,” the deputy said.
“Dr. White would know,” Mrs. McNeil said. “I could run them over to him, if you’d like.”
I slid the pills from the curled sheet into the empty envelope. I didn’t know who in Rutland would know of my uncle’s illness. Perhaps Aunt Lil had forwarded the news from my letter. But the timing was all off.
My uncle was about to nod off, his breakfast still sitting in his lap. I didn’t want to wait another minute.
“I’m going to give him the pills,” I said. “It can’t do any more harm than what my doing nothing has.”
chapter thirty-one
Tess
My load was lighter when I left Rutland. The amoxicillin had been mailed and was, I hoped, in John’s hands already. I had placed my first ad in the Herald—scheduled to run in the Saturday edition. If all went as planned, it would reach its target audience in just under a hundred thirty-four years. And finally, I had a savings account, along with fifty dollars in cash, though acquiring the account hadn’t been as easy as Abigail had thought it would be.