by D. L. Koontz
“All the time.”
“The Scots call that ‘tartle.’”
His mouth curved. “Impressive.”
Libby smirked. “Thanks, but it’s not such a great achievement considering it comes from a quirk of my DNA...the way I was born. I have no fashion sense, the site of blood makes me nauseous, I’m too impatient to teach, computing numbers bores me, and politics make me angry, so I didn’t have many career options anyway.”
He chuckled. “Still, it might serve you well as you branch out into your new life.”
“Here, in rural Pennsylvania? In the Roaring Twenties? I doubt there is much need for interpreters.” She stretched out her legs and cast a forlorn look at the ground.
He cocked his head as though surprised. “You don’t have to stay here. The world, as they say, is your oyster.”
Leave the springs? Was that possible? “Don’t you live around here?”
“No.” He put his empty plate on the ground, and leaned in, parking his forearms on his knees and clasping his hands. “After I traveled through the water and learned when I was, I decided to go to Pittsburgh. My background was in accounting. I figured the steel mills were booming in the early nineteen hundreds, and could use extra help. I was right. It has served me well. I’m in upper management now. I won’t strive for a higher position because with success comes a relinquishing of privacy. People become more curious, want to know all about you. I can’t afford to deal with those questions about my past.”
“But Andrew said I needed to stay here. Near the water.” Even as she spoke, Libby remembered Davis saying that Zachary Hayes had headed west. It hadn’t registered with her before.
That tick in Davis’s jaw returned and he looked away. Was that anger she saw? No, perhaps bewilderment. He stayed silent for a moment, and when at last he spoke, his tone hinted at nothing untoward. “Perhaps you misunderstood him. You should drink lots of the mineral water to complete your transition, restore your memory. But once you feel healthy again, you can taper off. You won’t always be tied to the medicinal water.”
“But, I didn’t misunderstand him. I know for certain...” Libby snapped her mouth shut, and dropped her gaze to the ground. Davis was so kind, so helpful. Best not to change the mood of the moment. She could work this out later. She wished Andrew were here so he could explain what she’d misunderstood. More than that, she longed for his arms to be around her, to reassure her.
She looked up to see Davis staring at her. “You trusted him very much, didn’t you?” he asked, but she couldn’t gage the curiosity or intensity behind his question.
Libby nodded. “Of course I did. He—”
“Became quite a good friend to you.”
She wondered why Davis was so curious. “More than that,” she whispered.
Davis’s brows lifted, urging her to explain.
“I was his wife.”
His jaw ticked, the movement there, then gone like a fleeting hint of...what? Anger? Dismay? Dare she interpret it as jealousy? Surely not. Yet, the vibes emanating from him were no longer those of warmth, but rather a neutral nothingness. Bewildered, she wondered about the change her comment wrought in his demeanor.
She waited for him to speak, and when he didn’t she decided she misunderstood the moment. After all, she didn’t know this man very well. Then again, she hadn’t known Andrew very well either. “We met only a little over a month ago. A kind of whirlwind romance.” She watched a look of curiosity cross Davis’s face. “When he told me I was dying—”
“He told you?” He raised a brow, but kept his gaze on the fire as he asked his question. Libby detected no censure in his tone, just curiosity.
“That’s right. From his computer files. When he told me, I had it verified by a Dr. Kuzmich.”
Something passed over Davis’s face again. Was it a glint of annoyance, or merely the shadows of the flames dancing that caused such a flicker?
Libby continued. “That was just a week before I took the mineral water. We got married the day before I came here.”
Again, his demeanor confused her. His shoulders dropped and he formed a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Was he concerned about her? With a start she realized she wanted to ease his concerns, smooth her hand across his cheek and urge him to smile, tell him she was fine.
But she wasn’t fine and in the next instant she fought against a wave of sadness and longing that rolled over her. Tears surfaced and she began to shake as she gave into the fear and heartache.
Davis moved to her, dropped to his knees, and pulled her into an embrace, holding her as she cried several minutes. He smelled of soap and cigars, an odd combination.
“I-I’m sorry,” Libby finally blubbered. “I’m so afraid. I don’t even feel married. I know Andrew will find me, but it’s like I’ve been abandoned for now.”
Davis leaned back and looked at her as he rubbed one of her arms. “I understand.” His voice was pitched low with sorrow. “Things will look better with time.”
“He wants to come back.” She choked on her words. “He just doesn’t know how to accomplish it yet. He said each time is more painful...” She broke off as she heard her own words. She’d barely survived once and couldn’t imagine ever trying again. She closed her eyes and dropped her face into her hands as the reality of her aloneness set in.
Davis shifted to her side and rubbed circles on her back. When at last he spoke his tone harbored no censure, no berating. “You need to move on with your life. It’s healthiest to accept that you are a widow now. Otherwise you may wait endlessly. I know I said you can go anywhere, but the truth is, I hope you stay around this area. I’m being selfish, of course. But I would like to talk to someone occasionally, from my own time.”
She pulled her shoulders back. He was trying to buoy her up, give her hope, a reason to move forward. The least she could do is rise to the effort. She shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe. I guess I could go to Pittsburgh too.”
He raised a brow. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why? You think Darcie...?”
“No. It’s not that. She’s an incredible woman. And, she has private aspects of her life as well. When we married, we agreed we would always be honest with one another, but that if we couldn’t answer a particular question, we would say so and the other would respect that. You’d be one of those questions I couldn’t answer. Not yet, anyway.” He rubbed his chin. “No, I’m more concerned about your safety. This may raise your feminine dander, but it’s just not safe for a young woman to live alone in this period.”
A renewed wave of sadness rolled over Libby at what she’d left behind.
He continued. “Let’s take this one day at a time. Get used to life here, at the Springs Hotel, for a while.” He pulled out a pocket watch and read it. “We can discuss this tonight when there is no sun to take advantage of.”
She nodded, then remembered what she’d seen earlier reflected on the plate. She touched her hair. Greasy. Looked at her shift. Soiled. Dirty. Wrinkled. What’s more the garment was so thin, it must have been almost transparent when he’d pulled her from the water. No doubt, she’d been as good as naked at that moment. “You’ve been very kind not mentioning how I look and smell. Do you think I could freshen up somewhere...somehow?”
Davis chuckled and stood, collecting their dishes. “Now I know you’re healing. Why don’t you bathe in the creek while you get some sun? A two-fer. Don’t worry. You won’t always have to do that. This period does have indoor plumbing and bathtubs.”
Libby forced a weak smile. “I-I’m a little hesitant about submerging myself again in water.”
“Ah, I see. As I recall, I was too. But you won’t be in the mineral water. The creek is different, the composition of the water, the sight and sounds of it. All different. Once you’re at the hotel, you may want to swim in the pool there. It’s tied into another spring.”
“I doubt that very much.”
He shrugged. “We’ll see. You mi
ght find it’s the only solo form of rigorous exercise you can undertake in this period without raising eyebrows. Besides, your determination to be healed is what kept you in the water. That’s not your driving force for being in the water anymore. Now, let’s see...” He turned and rummaged through a couple duffel bags. “Ah, here they are.” Returning, he handed her a towel. “Sorry, no Canon or Martha Stewart labels. But you’ll be happy about this.” He held up a bar of soap. She read the brand name, “Palmolive transparent toilet soap.”
She’d never seen the soap before, but he was right that the somewhat-familiar name made her smile, although its packaging reminded her of antique markets.
“I warn you though, it’s harsh stuff. More lye than lotion.” He followed that with a bottle of Mulsified Cocoanut Oil Shampoo. He shrugged. “Darcie likes it. And finally, the piece de resistance.” He presented a toothbrush, a tube of Pepto-Mint toothpaste, and a bottle of Listerine, each in unfamiliar packaging.
She smiled, wrapping the toiletries in the towel. “What more could a girl want?”
Davis nodded, and rubbed his hands together. “I’ll take you to the creek. While you bathe, I’ll head into town and get more supplies. My motorcar...eh, that’s what they call them now...it’s parked over the ridge in a grove of trees. I’ll try to find more appropriate clothes for you, too. Shouldn’t be hard. You’re rather thin. Gotten thinner in the past several days.” As he kicked dirt over the fire, he said, “You’ll find young women now are following this ridiculous fad of looking like skinny little boys. No shapes. Just straight columns. You’re a bit taller than the average woman’s height these days. You may have to order clothes tailor-made later.”
“You should see my roommate Colette. She’s five-eleven.”
He whistled. “We’re lucky you came back rather than her.”
If he hadn’t stopped to stare at her feet, Libby would have remarked that lucky was the last thing she felt. Instead, she asked, “Something wrong?”
“Shoe sizing hasn’t been standardized yet.” He snapped his fingers, and said, “I know.” He returned to his duffel bag and pulled out writing paper and a pencil. As he traced her foot, Libby sighed in relief that at least he hadn’t pulled out a quill and ink well. She had so much to learn about this period.
As they exited the cave, a thought struck and she whirled around to voice it. “Davis, I have no money. I can’t repay you for any of this.”
He laughed and winked. “Money is the least of my concerns. We’ll talk about that tonight, too.”
With forced brightness she said, “Sounds like we’ll be busy.”
“Indeed. We’re relocating to the hotel tomorrow. That means we’ve got to do a crash course about the Roaring Twenties this evening.”
Chapter Thirteen
1917
Nathan’s head throbbed with a dull, wavering pain. He groaned and rolled onto his back, eyes closed tight.
Images flickered at the edges of his memory, cavorting, as though teasing him to pursue clearer focus, to remember. An open pasture...crystal water...a mule...an old man...each attempt to sharpen the vision caused more throbbing. Hadn’t he suffered enough?
And, for how long? Time had lost context as light and dark passed over him, an inseparable veil.
Location confused him, too. He had opened his eyes thrice, finding himself in a dwelling he didn’t recognize, and unlike anything he’d ever seen. So many windows, so much sunlight, so many furnishings and things made of glass and from metals he didn’t know existed. Carved and molded in shapes he’d never imagined. The odd cushioning beneath him was softer and bigger than any straw mattress he’d ever slept on.
Hadn’t there earlier been an old woman spooning something into his mouth? A broth and a bitter tea made from willow bark. At other times, water or whiskey. But always, the spinning would begin again, so he had closed his eyes and drifted back to the bliss of nothingness. He’d needed to keep his eyes shut to thwart the pain.
This time, it felt like his head ached because he’d been lying down too long.
He opened his eyes a slit and inched into a sitting position, waiting for the dizziness to subside. The dwelling stopped spinning, and the unusual things surrounding him settled into place. Light filtered in through a faded cotton curtain and he blinked against it.
He rubbed a hand down his face and whiskered jaw. When had he shaved last? His breath hitched as the magnitude of his situation washed over him. Shaving was the least of his concerns. He couldn’t remember how he got here. Or, where here was. He didn’t know when it was either.
He rubbed his forehead as if pressure would activate remembrance.
He’d been on a journey. Yes, that’s it. He’d been trying to get home. It had been years. Hadn’t it?
That’s why nothing looked familiar. Time had marched on, things had changed. His family... He had a family, didn’t he? They must have moved and resettled here. But then, why was there no joy of anticipation in his heart at the prospect of home and familiar faces?
He dropped his hands, eased his feet to the floor, and assessed his surroundings. Nothing sparked recognition.
Music interrupted his thoughts. Sharp, tinty, but melodious and calming. Sounds that blended well together. Instruments he’d never heard before.
Nathan stood, reaching to the wall for support. He would follow the music. Someone in that group making the music might provide answers.
He stepped forward, catching an image of a harsh, weary man in a looking glass hanging on the opposite wall. Had he always looked like that? He’d thought he was younger. Was he pale from having been ill? Lined from sleeping too long? He noted scars. So many of them. Scars fading into white, but still there. It had to be from a wound or two healed long ago. One scar, still raised and pinkish, sliced a crooked line along his right cheek.
It was a moment before he registered his nakedness. He looked around him. A shirt and a pair of trousers were draped across a wooden structure. Shouldn’t they look familiar? These had to be a wealthy gentleman’s clothes. He donned them anyway.
Dressed, but barefoot, he staggered through the next room. So large. So much space! Visions came to mind of a two-room cabin with puncheon floor, simple fireplace, and sawbuck table. None of that here.
Instead, he saw large, ponderous furniture made of mahogany and black walnut with chiseled legs and marble tops, ornamented knobs and rainbow colors of cushions. An object, ceramic at its base but topped with a fabric cylinder, appeared to be attached to the wall by way of a thick cord. That rifle over the doorway, he’d never seen anything like that. Books, everywhere! A ponderous black, round metal structure—a wood-fired stove? A huge basin built into what looked like a cooking area, with part of a hand pump built into it. Where was the rest of the pump and why was it inside the house?
He smelled the rich aroma of tobacco wafting through the entryway, straight ahead. The passage, leading from the cabin to the outside, had two doors. One, solid wood, stood ajar. The other, made of a wood frame and centered with fine fibers of metal molded together to create a thin mesh, offered a see-through view to the outside. He pulled it toward him, but stopped to marvel at the tiny patterned squares. A vision of different doors skirted through his mind. The first made of hides sewn together and draping to the ground. The other involved a thick batten door hung on wooden hinges, with a strong latch and an extra bar for use in time of attack. But, attack from what? The answer wouldn’t come.
“Shut the screen door,” a stern female voice commanded. “Keeps the bugs out.”
He looked back at the door, cataloguing that term. Screen door.
Moving through the archway, he followed the voice, stepping onto the porch and pushing, too hard, the screen door shut behind him. The bang, so loud, startled a woodpecker and it leaped into soaring flight through the upper branches of the trees fronting the dwelling.
He’d been ready to utter apologies for slamming the door with such force, but instead stifled to find a lon
e, old woman on the porch. No musicians. No instruments in site, yet the music continued, emanating from a wooden box perched on a table near the woman. The box’s lid was propped open, and something dark circulated inside.
He planted his hands in his pockets and stood firm, taking in the miracle box. The woman remained quiet and he appreciated that. He needed a moment to search for a memory, to absorb the busyness and complexity of this place he must surely call home. He found comfort only, and very little at that, in the dull brown color of the wood dwelling and the familiar landscape of the distant mountains.
The woman, seated in a rocking chair, turned her head. Their gazes met. As they exchanged brief nods, he noted a long black braid of hair tinged in gray, and dark eyes above a shelf of high cheekbones covered in deeply etched wrinkles and papery skin. Eyes that looked too young for the body that housed them. Eyes that struck him as vaguely familiar.
She looked back to the scenery, never breaking her measured back-and-forth motion, the wood porch floor creaking beneath the rockers. He kept his gaze on her, holding back a longing desire, a wish that he would feel a memory of her.
She sipped from a tin cup, then dragged on a cigar, her breath coming in shallow puffs. Ashes flittered on her clothing.
Did he remember his mother wearing pants? That would make practical sense for the many chores necessary on a farm. He scrutinized her hands. They were long, thick, and work-roughened, confirming she worked hard. But, why did he think his mother had a different voice and demeanor? In his mind, she was welcoming, gentler, quick to make eye contact and put others at ease. Hadn’t his mother once greeted strangers with more zeal than this woman now used with her own son? Perhaps he was still fevered. Not thinking correctly.
And what of the golden bronze of her skin? His skin paled in comparison. Then again, he’d been ill.
The woman looked so old. Perhaps he too was older than he thought. He remembered the image in the looking glass earlier.
The box stopped making music and instead issued a rhythmic thumping sound as the black cylinder continued to spin. The woman leaned forward, shifted something inside the box, and turned a knob. The box went quiet.