Once Beyond a Time (14 page)

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.

Sunday, August 4, 1968

S
O 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.

“Well, 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?”

Right now, the only thing I can imagine is Austin Buchanan wearing
a tie-dyed T-shirt and a beaded headband while he’s sitting around with a bunch of peaceniks smoking weed and swaying along to the tune of “All You Need Is Love.” It may be 1916 where he is, but it might as well be 1968, far as I can see. I mean, what is he? The original flower child or something?

If he weren’t so doggone cute, I’d laugh right in his face. Maybe I’ll laugh in his face anyway. How can anyone listen to this and not crack up? I mean, the world’s on its way to hell in a hand basket, and he’s sitting there talking about peace and justice and thinking things are only going to get better? I may not understand half of what he’s talking about, but I
do
know how some things turn out between 1916 and 1968, and it’s not exactly pretty.

“Listen, Austin,” I say, “I hate to be the one to have to break it to you but—”

Well, good grief! How typical! Isn’t that just like a guy? The minute you’re ready to open your mouth and challenge them, they disappear as if they suddenly decided they got something more important to do than listen to a word you have to say.

Thursday, August 8, 1968

M
EALTIMES CAN BE
awkward. Like right now. The four of us sit around the dining room table, quietly downing our pork chops and mashed potatoes. Forks and knives tap out a dull thud on the cheap plastic plates. I search my mind for something to say, anything to break the silence. Finally, I remember. “Looks like I’ll be closing another sale tomorrow,” I announce, trying to sound enthusiastic. “All I need is the signature on the paperwork.”

Meg gazes at me down the length of the table and manages the semblance of a smile. “That’s good news, Sheldon,” she says.

Linda offers what sounds like a grunt of approval, though I can’t be sure.

Digger, his mouth bulging with food, grins at me and says, “Way to go, Dad! Pretty soon we’re going to be rich!”

“Well …” I pause and clear my throat. “I don’t know about rich, son. But—”

“Hey,” Digger cries, “I forgot to tell you guys! Last time I saw Mac he said there’s gold in these mountains and when he’s bigger he’s going to go looking for it!”

“Gold?” Meg echoes. “Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure! Mac told me some guy found enough gold around
here to build himself a mansion over in Asheville.”

“Oh sure,” Linda says, rolling her eyes. “That’s crazy. There’s no gold around here.”

“There is too! Mac said so!”

“Well, what does Mac know? He’s just a kid.”

“He knows plenty. Probably more than you know—”

I sense this is a good time for me to step in. “Well, Digger, there’s been some mining done in these mountains, but mostly for gemstones, I think. And mica. And who knows, but there may be some fool’s gold out there, but I haven’t heard of gold being found around here.”

“But Mac told me he knew for sure people had found gold.”

“Well, he may think so, but—”

“Listen, Digger, I’m going to ask Austin next time I see him,” Linda says. “I bet he’ll say his little brother’s a big fat liar—”

“Mac’s not a liar!”

“All right, you two,” Meg says. “That’s enough. I’m sure there’s some way to find out whether there’s gold in these mountains, but let’s drop it for now.”

We turn back to our plates. The quiet returns. But after a moment, Meg speaks again. “So Linda, how often do you see Austin?”

Almost at once, Linda goes on the defensive. If she were a cat, her claws would be unsheathed. “I can’t help it when he shows up, Mom! I mean, I’m just sitting there or something, and next thing I know, there he is. It’s not like we’re dating or anything, and besides you don’t have to worry because he can’t even touch me, you know—”

“Linda,” Meg breaks in quietly. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just asking if you happen to see him often.”

Linda’s eyes narrow and her mouth becomes a small line as she slices a bite-sized piece of meat off the chop. If it were possible, I would say she is rather sweet on this young man who lives in 1916. If so, surely it is a rather star-crossed affair, one whose end is inevitable disappointment.