Once Beyond a Time (12 page)

“No. But you can sit down.” She gestures toward the other rocking chair. I put a hand on it and find it solid. Of course it is; it has been here since we moved in.

“The chairs are here in both times,” I say as I sit.

“Yes. Much of what is in the house today was there in your time.”

“But the things you brought to the house, like the tea cups—they’re outside of my time, and beyond my reach.”

She nods again. “That’s right.”

“You are outside of my time, and yet I can see you and talk to you.”

“Yes. It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But—well, it’s amazing and frightening at the same time.”

“No need to be afraid,” she says.

“You sound as though you’re used to this.”

“No, I’m not used to it. But I’ve been told what to expect. And, anyway, it’s a gift, something good. It’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“That’s what Vernita Ponder said. Do you know her?”

“The name is familiar, but I’m not sure I ever met her.”

“But of course not. She wouldn’t be alive in your time; it’s so far in the future. But then, how is it that you know about the house?”

“The elderly woman I work for in Asheville, Mrs. See—she told me.”

“Mrs. See?” I cock my head at the strange name. “Is that S-E-E?”

“Hmmm,” she says as she sips her tea. She turns her glance toward the empty fireplace and sits quietly a moment.

“Do many people know about this place then, in your time?”

“Oh no. No, very few.”

“But Mrs. See knows?”

“Yes.”

“But how? How does she know?”

She thinks a moment. “I’m not sure I can tell you that. At least, not yet.”

I frown at her answer. I want to know everything, to know the reason behind what’s happening here. That this woman knows something I don’t know—that she cannot or will not tell me—is annoying. At the same time, I sense that I need to trust her, and that she will somehow be my ally in all this. “So you live in the house now?” I ask. “Your now, I mean?”

She moves her head from side to side, her long braids rubbing the shoulders of her dress. It is a floral dress, sleeveless, and without a waist. A sort of casual summer gown that falls all the way to the sandals on her feet. She looks freer, more comfortable in those clothes than I imagine I do in this housedress and patent leather slippers.

“No, I work here for Mr. Valdez. I work part-time here and part-time for Mrs. See. In fact, it was Mrs. See who told me about the position. She said she knew of a man in Black Mountain who needed help, and she sent me here to speak with Mr. Valdez. When I showed up, Mr. Valdez was rather surprised, saying he hadn’t even advertised for the job yet. When I mentioned that Mrs. See had sent me, he seemed to understand, and he hired me right away.”

I cock my head a moment in thought. Finally I say, “I’m afraid I don’t completely understand.”

She chuckles and shrugs. “Never mind,” she says. “It’s not important. You asked whether I live here and the point is, no, I don’t. I work here. I care for the house and for the child, Nicholas. Mr. Valdez is at work right now and the boy is napping upstairs.”

“And where’s the child’s mother?” I ask.

“Oh. Well, Mrs. Valdez is in Iraq and—”

“Iraq?” I interrupt. “My heavens! What’s she doing there?”

For the first time, the woman looks uncomfortable. “Well, there’s a war on and—”

“And she’s a nurse?”

“No. No, she’s not a nurse. She’s a soldier.”

“A soldier?”

“Yes. In the Army National Guard.”

“A woman soldier? What kind of world …?”

My voice trails off as I leave the question dangling. The woman smiles. “It’s not so different, really, from the world of your time. After all, women served in the military in your time, too.”

“Yes,” I say. “I suppose some do. But in your time they’re drafting mothers?”

“Oh no.” She shakes her head. “There’s no draft. It’s all voluntary. Men and women both serve because they want to.”

“I see,” I say weakly, trying to understand. A woman has gone to war voluntarily and left her child behind?

She takes a last sip of tea and settles the cup and saucer on the hearth. The record finishes, and the house falls quiet. I should turn off the phonograph and put the arm back on the rest, but I don’t want to leave the company of this woman.

After a moment, she says, “By the way, I’m Celeste. Celeste Mosley.”

“Celeste,” I repeat. “That’s a beautiful name. Well, I’m happy to meet
you, Celeste. I’m Meg Crane.”

She offers another kindly smile. “You’re new to Black Mountain, aren’t you?”

“Yes. We just moved here from Pennsylvania. We lived outside of Philadelphia. And you?”

“I grew up here. But after I graduated from the University of North Carolina, over in Asheville, I moved to Dallas. I had a degree in business, and I was ready to make my fortune.”

“Oh?” I try to hide my astonishment, but I’m afraid I fail. The future is simply too full of surprises. A woman soldier in a place like Iraq and a Negro housekeeper with a college degree. “So, what happened?” I ask.

“Well, I succeeded.” She pauses as though to give me time to let that sink in. “Eventually, I became an executive with a big-name company, and I was spending all my time making money and let me tell you, I was spending lots of money too. But I had no time left to enjoy the things I was spending money on. So when I turned forty, I asked myself, Celeste, what are you doing? What are you doing with your life? And I didn’t have a good answer. So I came back here to where I started.” Once more, she shines upon me that gentle smile of hers. “And now, I just spend time. That’s all. I came back here so I can just spend time.”

Her words hang suspended in the air, hovering over us like a protecting hand. We both seem to rest in them. Several quiet moments pass in which she allows me to join her in simply spending time. The clock on the mantle keeps rhythm with the swaying of our chairs. The seconds fall away, expended in being.

But then, suddenly, Celeste herself breaks into the circle of quiet. Holding up her left hand, she announces joyfully, “I also got engaged.” The diamond on her finger sparkles in the light. “I’m finally getting married for the first time,” she continues. “I had to come back to Black Mountain to find a man like Cleve. Forty-two years old and, come next spring, I’ll be a bride. Imagine that.”

“Congratulations,” I say. “I’m happy for you.”

I want to hear more of her story, but a child’s wail reaches us from somewhere upstairs. My thoughts fly to Digger, but no, this is a far younger child, a toddler.

“Nicholas is awake,” Celeste says. “I’d best go check on him.” She stands and steps across the kitchen, but then turns back and says, “Well, I’ll be seeing you, I trust.” And then she walks into the dining room and quite literally disappears.

Sunday, July 28, 1968

D
AD’S PLEASED AS
punch I came to church with them this morning. As if I care one whit about church. I didn’t come because I wanted to hear some bald-headed old man babbling on up there in the pulpit, and I sure didn’t come for the funeral dirge hymn singing. I came because of the cemetery. I want to see if the Buchanans are buried here, like Vernita Ponder said.

Man, it’s hot. People are fanning themselves with their bulletins, and the preacher is droning on like he thinks we care about what he has to say, and if he doesn’t wrap this up in another minute, I think I’m going to kill someone. I mean, sheesh mister, stifle it. Can’t you see you’re boring us to death out here? We’re sitting in these pews committing the sin of murder in our hearts, and you have no idea how close you are to seeing your Savior face to face in about another ten seconds.

I lean over and whisper to Mom, “I’ve got to get some air. I’ll meet you guys outside after the service.”

She gives me a look that says she’s not happy, but I’m not exactly happy myself right now, so I’m just going to do what I came here to do. I get up and squeeze past Digger—who wants to go too but Mom grabs his arm. Sorry, kid. Better luck next time.

Outside it’s cooler, but not much. Just walking from the church steps
to the cemetery I’m breaking a sweat. Criminy, this is a pretty good-sized cemetery too. It could take me all day to find these people. If they’re even here. Vernita said she thought they were, so I might as well take a look around.

As a rule, I’m not exactly fond of cemeteries. They kind of freak me out, especially when I think of what’s down there under the ground. Like, I’m walking over the bones of a bunch of people who used to be walking on top of the ground just like I am now. And they’re down there with their skin all rotting away and the worms feasting on their eyeballs and all that. Reminds me of that song Carl used to always sing whenever we drove by a funeral procession.
When a hearse goes by, never laugh, for you may be the next to die …
Man, oh man, I hated that song when we were kids. I still do.

So let’s see. What’ve we got here? Besides the Hatfields and McCoys, that is. Frady. Watford. Milling. Buck. Gupton. Cisco. Cisco? That sounds familiar. Gordon Cisco and his beloved wife Evelyn Mae. Oh yeah! She’s the old biddy who died in our house. Yup, 1959. That’s her. Good grief.

I wonder what time it is. I wonder if that preacher’s done or if he’s still flapping his jaw. I might as well skip some of these smaller stones and just check out the bigger ones. I mean, if the Buchanans had money like Vernita Ponder said, they probably went for something pretty flashy, you know?

Oh man, these sandals aren’t the best choice for hiking around a graveyard. I might as well take them off. Grass is cool under my feet, anyway.

Now this one looks like it might be … Nope. Otis Emerson Pritchard. Nice headstone you got there, Otis. Angel with a trumpet and everything. Pretty fancy. You must have been some sort of bigwig around here or something. Yeah, so, way to go. Rest in peace.

Let’s see. Badgett. Adams. Clegg. Federspiel. Federspiel? Well, whatever. But, gee whiz, I’ll be here forever. I could … hey, wait a minute. That old stone there with the little lamb on top and the name Malcolm
Buchanan. Malcolm Buchanan! That’s Mac! That’s—but hold on here. This stone says he died in 1919. Wow, I can’t believe it. He was still a kid when he died. I wonder what happened.

“Linda!”

I turn and see Mom making her way through the headstones, walking toward me. She’s alone. Dad and Digger are probably eating donuts in the church basement.

“Mom, look!” I point at the little lamb headstone. “It’s Mac!”

In another moment, she reaches me and stands there reading the stone. “Oh, dear,” she says.

“He died in 1919.”

“Yes, I see that.” She lifts a fist to her chest, like her heart hurts or something. I know she’s thinking about Digger. Or maybe she’s thinking about Mac, or Mac’s mother. I don’t know. She’s always feeling bad about something.

“What do you think happened?” I asked.

She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Life was harder back then. So many diseases, and they didn’t have the medicines we have now.” She keeps on looking at the stone, and then after another minute she says, “Oh, you know what? I think the Spanish flu was still going on that year. Killed thousands of people around the world. My great uncle Benton died of the flu, along with two of his children.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. So maybe it was that. Maybe Mac died during the flu epidemic.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

She sighs so heavily, I think she’s going to deflate. Then she says, “Listen, Linda, let’s not tell Digger, all right? About Mac’s death.”

What can I do but shrug? “Sure. I won’t tell him.”

“I just don’t think he’d understand.”

“Like any of us can understand any of this, Mom. I mean, how often do you talk to people who are living in different times?”

Mom nods, then points to the stone next to Mac’s. “Look. Did you see this?” she asks. “It’s Mac’s parents. Amelia and Palmer.”

The stone is not so big after all. Just a regular stone, with their names, birth dates, and death dates. So here they are, buried here in this cemetery, just like Vernita Ponder said.

“Wow,” I say, “Palmer Buchanan died in 1929, but Amelia didn’t die till 1948. She was a widow for a long time. And Palmer outlived Mac by ten years.”

“It was probably the tuberculosis that killed him.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

But I don’t care what killed Palmer Buchanan. I’m already looking around again. I’m looking for Austin, for a headstone that says Austin Buchanan. But there isn’t one. Not here by the rest of the family, anyway.

“Austin isn’t here,” I say.

“No?”

I shake my head. “I wonder where he is?”

“Well …” Mom thinks a minute. Finally, she says, “No telling. He may have lived the rest of his life in Chicago and was buried up there. Or who knows, Linda? I mean, there was a war, the First World War, Austin might have—well, you know.”

“You think Austin might have died in that war?”