Ripples Through Time (2 page)

Mellie could have remembered them all. She always knew the
names, even when she was having one of her bad days. She was the smart one, and
I never felt complete when she wasn’t around…

I clear my throat: “Do you know my first thought when I woke
up?” I ask.

Edward just stares at me.

I am speaking out loud, but I don’t think I’m talking to
him.

I don’t think I’m talking to myself, either. I am
just…talking. Saying something. Anything to keep from thinking.

“No,” Edward says when I don’t continue. He doesn't have an
answer. Of course he doesn't, how could he?

But I still don’t continue right away. I hold my next words,
weighing them in my head. I haven’t vocalized anything like this yet. Not out
loud where anyone could hear. I told Bethany some of it, but not all. And I
knew she wouldn’t really listen. But Edward, he’s deeper. He’ll hear me. Really
hear me.

That scares the hell out of me.

No, I won’t tell him. I’ll just make something up to fill
the gap. I try to think of something else to say. Some story I can blab that
he’ll believe.

But it’s no use. The words are like a fountain now in my
head, threatening to bubble over. They want to be spoken. They want to be
heard.

I find myself staring at the maple tree we planted when we
first moved in. It’s still small, but beautiful. It was barely a sapling when I
stole it from some national park or other. Stole a few of them, right next to the
sign that says stealing trees from a park is a federal crime. Heh.

Edward rubs his hands on his jeans the way a politician does
before he’s going to shake your hand. Sweaty hands. Not working hands. There is
barely a blemish on them. Edward knows computers, but the boy barely knows
anything about a hard day’s work.

Not his fault. Just the world. Everything changes.

I adjust the potted plant on the table.

Edward runs a hand through his fading hair, graying at the
sides and retreating from his forehead.

I fight the words almost a minute, hoping Edward will speak.
But he doesn’t say anything.  

Then my mouth opens: “What I thought was: ‘why am I still
here?’”

“It’s a beautiful day, Calvin. I’m sure God has you here
for—“

“No. If God has a reason for me to be here, it’s ‘cause he
forgot about me,” I say. I fumble in my pocket for a cigarette, and then
remember I don’t have any. I haven’t had any for four years, ever since Mellie
got sick.

Old habits die hard.

“Truth is that’s not the first time I thought it, either. I’ve
wondered for years now. I can’t do anything except putter around. This is
the first time, though, that I 
meant
 it.”

“Beth told me what you said,” Edward says softly, “but she
didn’t know what you meant.” His voice is so soft I can barely hear him. Clearly
this isn’t something he wants to talk about either. I wave my hand at his
concern.

“My daughter was just talking.”

“She doesn’t know what you’re planning.”

I pause, then ask: “Do you?”

Edward only stares at me, his expression strained. I look down
at the table, then at the glass front door of our squat gray condo. Our condo.

For a second, only a second, I can see her face.  There in
the glass, her eyes wistful and tragic.

My mind drifts: it is one of those nights when Mellie felt
well enough to get out of bed. She would look out that glass window to the
houses beyond, as though it was the whole world.
I suppose it was, after all
this time. It was the only world we had left.

I never knew what she was staring at.

I never knew what 
her
 world looked like.  

“She said the window was dirty. She said—” my voice cracks
“—she said: ‘Calvin, this window’s all dirty and I can’t see nothing. You
should clean it.’”

I barely push the last few words out. It hurts, but not with
the intensity of youth. This is a dull ache, emptiness. Loneliness. But it is
tinged with relief. I hated seeing her in pain more than I hated losing her.

“That was a few weeks ago,” I hear myself say. “And I
cleaned the window. And it took me forever. Spent almost an hour scrubbing it
so she could look out. But she never did.”

“I’m sorry,” Edward says.

“I’m not,” I say. “She’s not in pain now. No more crying. No
more sleeping. No more waking up in agony. It’s over for her, and she can rest.
She’s with God now, and God knows she deserves it. And now I wonder: why am I
still here?”

“You were a saint,” Edward says, “taking care of her all of
those years.”

I grunt to show what I think of 
that
. There
definitely aren’t words to describe 
that 
statement. “I
was 
something
.”

“You were there when she needed you.”

It wasn’t enough. Not after everything. It could never be
enough.

 
“Edward,” I say finally. I turn away, suddenly
unable to look him in the eye. “I’ll walk there if I have to. It’s only a few
miles. I can make it that far.”

“You can’t do this.”

“I won’t hear none of that now,” I say, finding energy in a
surge of anger. “Don’t you dare tell me what I can and can’t do. I said
I’ll 
walk
 if I have to. But I don’t want to. It should be
easier than this.” I pause. Tears are welling but I refuse to blink. “Why isn’t
it easier? I shouldn’t have to beg.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’ll walk if I have to,” I repeat, “but I would appreciate
if you drove me to the cemetery. To her grave. Will you do it?”

Edward is silent for a long moment, but I can’t tell if he
was seriously considering the request. Finally, he lets out a long sigh and
says:

“Calvin, Emily is gone. I won’t drive you to her grave so
you can kill yourself.”

1946 -
Emily Harper

“I bet you never knew much about Emily. When she was a
child?”

“No. She was my friend’s mom,” Edward says. “I never even
thought she had a childhood, when I was little.”

I laugh. “Yeah, that makes a kind of sense.”

“I think it’s hard for kids to realize how young their
parents actually are until they are adults,” Edward says. “And then you look
back and think about all the times they must have been completely lost and
helpless.”

“We had plenty of those.”

“Why don’t you tell me about her,” Edward says.

“You want a story?” I ask, mulling it over.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe something when she was little.
Something she told you.”

“The way she describes it, it was all cherry blossoms and
honeysuckle. But things were bad at home. Before I met her. There were some
things she regretted, but I always tried to tell her, they made her a better
person…”

“I’m cold.”

“We won’t be in here for much longer. Stop fidgeting.”

“And it’s dark.”

Emily struggled to ignore her irritating friend, yet she
couldn’t help but admit that Olivia was right. It was certainly frigid and
cramped in here, and even from her position she couldn’t see more than a circle
of light at the end of their pipe. 

They were tucked down close together inside a culvert that
ran beside Jakob’s Lane, Emily in front and Olivia just behind clutching her
ankles. Emily could just make out the dirt road ahead of them through the
opening, and her eyes were at knee height for most passersby—not that they saw
many passersby. 

Water was seeping through her dress and she knew her mother would
yell at her as soon as she got home, but she didn’t mind. Outside the culvert
it was a beautiful spring day, the sun just past its precipice, and she was
hungry. She knew Olivia was hungry too, but they didn’t talk about it. 

Hunger was just a fact of life she came to terms with long
ago, but she noticed it more now that she was about to get food. Her stomach
felt like it was eating itself.

“Can’t we hide behind the 
trees
 this time?”
Olivia asked, her voice echoing through the pipe.

“No, she’ll see us,” Emily said. “Don’t be a fat-head.”

“We always hide in here though. She’s probably expecting
us.”

Emily didn’t have a suitable reply. They sat in silence,
then she felt Olivia squirming against her calves, sloshing water on her bare
skin. She thought to say something and just sighed instead. 

“Are we going to get in trouble?” Olivia asked.

“No, OC. We won’t get in trouble.”

“But what if she tells on us?”

“She won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cause she hasn’t yet,” Emily replied.

“Oh yeah,” Olivia said. There was a short pause, then: “Why
not?”

“Why not what?”

“Why hasn’t she told on us?” Olivia asked.

Emily hesitated. “She just won’t,” she said. Truth be told,
Emily had no idea why the little girl from up the street hadn’t told on them. They
had been here, inside 
this
 culvert, lying in wait for her half
a dozen times, and still no one else seemed to know about it. 

Each time their fear and guilt made them promise each other
it would be the last; Emily worried that when she returned home her parents
would be there waiting for her: Dad’s punishment with a belt was terrifying
enough, but Mom always sent Emily to cut her own switch. 

And she could never find one that wouldn’t hurt. 

But there was no punishment after that first time. Nor any
subsequent theft, which meant the little girl wasn’t telling anyone. Emily
didn’t even know the girl’s name, even though she lived less than a twenty
minute walk from her home. 

All she knew was the girl came from a rich family—always
walking in expensive clothes bought in a store—one of the few in the
neighborhood, and she didn’t go to their school. Her father was a thoroughbred
horse trainer at a nearby track. But even with the girl going to a different
school she would have no trouble figuring out who they were and tell someone
what was happening to her. 

So why hadn’t she?

“I think I see something,” Emily whispered over her
shoulder. Her voice echoed all around and she winced, fairly certain her words
could be heard well outside the culvert. She peered through the opening and
tilted her head to get a better angle, then saw a pair of shoes slip by along
the road. 

Emily scrambled forward out of the culvert and onto the road
only a few dozen feet from the passing girl. She was small, maybe two years
younger than Emily, and pretty with shoulder length blonde hair. She had a
school bag over her shoulder. 

Jackpot
. She jumped a little when Emily appeared from
her hiding place, but didn’t move. 

“Don’t run!” Emily shouted anyway. 

She heard more scrambling in the culvert and a few seconds
later Olivia appeared beside her. 

“Take her bag, OC,” Emily ordered. 

The little girl looked down at the ground. She held the bag
out in offering. Olivia stepped forward and snatched it, yanking it open.

OC’s face lit up.

“Oh, oh, there are chocolate drops in here. And cinnamon
rolls, and a cookie!”

Emily stepped beside Olivia and peered over her shoulder. It
was true, there was a little pouch of Cinnamon Rolls sitting on top of the
girl’s papers and books. She snatched it out and tore the bag open. The smell
almost overwhelmed her and she found herself smiling. She pulled one of the
rolls out and ate half in one bite, offering the other half to Olivia. 

It was delicious, better than she’d expected, and she
couldn’t stop grinning. There were even chocolate drops, a real treat. They
removed the foodstuffs from the bag—this was the remains of the little girl’s
lunch…such things rich people get—and then tossed the bag back to the
girl. 

The girl deftly caught it, but kept her eyes on the road at
her feet.

“Wow, this is…this is smooth,” Olivia mumbled. Emily nodded,
taking one of the chocolate drops and popping it into her mouth.  Her stomach
still felt like it was churning, but now in a good way. She felt warm, closing
her eyes and savoring the chocolate as it melted.

 The elation built up and then drained away, though,
just as it always did, and she began to feel remorse for her actions. 

She opened her eyes again and saw the little girl still
standing in front of her, looking at the ground and twirling the dirt with her
shoe. Her bag was slung over her shoulder and hands locked behind her
back. 

Every other time the little girl ran off as soon as they
stole her food, but this time she stayed. 

A long moment passed, the only sound Olivia chewing on a
cookie. 

Slowly the silence became unbearable.

What is she waiting for?

“We’re…we’re sorry we took your stuff,” Emily offered,
turning to Olivia for support. Olivia just stared back at her, a blank
expression on her face.

The girl didn’t respond. 

Emily felt more remorse as time passed, realization sinking
in of what they had done. 

Whenever the little girl ran away and left them with the
stolen food, it was as though they had achieved victory over an unknown enemy
and were enjoying the spoils of war. But now with the victim still here, it
just felt like eating candy they stole from an innocent little girl a few years
younger than themselves. 

“I would pay, if I could—”

“My name is Mary Munro,” the little girl said suddenly,
keeping her eyes to the dirt. Emily and Olivia exchanged glances. “Don’t worry,
I won’t tell anyone.”

Emily hesitated. “Thanks.”

“And I wasn’t going to eat that stuff anyway. My mom always
packs me too much candy anyway. I was just going to give it to you. Do you like
horses?”

Emily nodded.

“I love horses. I think they are pretty, but my mom won’t
let me ride them. She tells me it’s too dangerous. But I like to go to the
races with my father. Do you like to go to races?”

Emily nodded again. She was starting to feel sick once more,
but this time it wasn’t from food or hunger. She stared at the little girl,
locked in place and unable to speak. 

“I should go,” Mary said, glancing up at them and flashing a
smile, then looking back at the dirt. “My mom said I could ask you over for
supper if you want. Or invite you to come see our horses. But you don’t have to
if you don’t want to.”

Then she was gone, disappearing up the road. 

Emily sat alone in her room, staring at nothing. The only
light source she had was a little greasy window halfway up the wall behind her,
and it didn't give much light even though it was only midday. Her mother didn’t
want her burning candles until it was pitch black outside, and only then for
schoolwork. 

A banner hung along the wall that read: ‘Congratulations Burming
Class of ’38,’ but that was the only decoration in the room. The banner wasn’t
even Emily’s, but belonged to her sister Janis, who didn’t like it hanging in
her own room. Emily thought the caramel colored banner spruced up her abode at
least a bit. It was at least more colorful than the blandness of the rest of
the house.

Her home was old, decrepit, and cramped with seven people
living in it. But it was still her home. She could hear the bustle from the
other side of the wall as her family talked and ate, but she was off in her own
world of self-induced guilt. 

The commotion gradually died down and she heard the door
opening as people funneled outside; dad and her brothers to work in the fields,
mother to finish laundry, and her sister to play with paper dolls—cut out of
magazines. She always hid in the garden to avoid work. 

The house fell quiet, but only for a few minutes, then she
heard the house door open again and footsteps tap their way to her room. Her
door opened without a knock and she saw Buell standing there, peering in at
her.

“You missed lunch,” Buell said. 

“I’m not hungry,” Emily replied. 

“Dad wants you to help with the hay. He had to drive to
town, so it’s just me and you today.”

“Why do I have to help? Why not Janis?”

“She’s a girl.”

“I’m a girl too!”

Buell grinned. “News to me.”

Emily sighed. “Janis has that stupid heart flutter and mom
won’t let her do any real work.”

“Don’t snap your cap. I still need help. Don’t worry, I’ll
let you climb on top and stack it.”

Emily shook her head, standing up from her floor mattress
and following her brother outside.  “You know I’m stronger than you. I’ll throw
them up to you.”

“You sure you aren’t a boy?”

“Shut up,” Emily said. They walked to the barn and grabbed
two pitchforks, and then Buell climbed up the side of the barn to the loft. There
was a ladder inside, but he never used it. No matter how many times mother
berated him. 

The loft was only twelve feet in the air, and Emily didn’t
figure his climbing to be unsafe, but she knew her mother liked to worry about
things just for the sake of worrying. She thought to mention it to Buell, just
to elicit a response, then changed her mind. She wasn’t in the mood to make
jokes; she felt too guilty about Mary.

“So where were you this morning?” Buell asked, as if reading
her mind.

“What do you mean?” Emily asked, climbing onto the wagon and
scooping some hay. She flung it up at the loft, then sneezed. She hated working
with hay because of the dust and how itchy it made her skin, but if they didn’t
get it all in the loft dad would get angry. God forbid it rained and they
hadn’t finished their job.

“Well you were supposed to be at school before me, but when
I showed up I found out the teachers cancelled it, and when I got back home you
weren’t here.”

“I was busy.”

“Flapping your lips?” Buell asked. “Goofing off?”

“Just busy,” Emily said, adding finality to her tone. She
continued flinging the hay up, closing her eyes most of the time so she
wouldn’t get falling hay dust in them. 

“Okay fine. Don’t tell me,” Buell said. “I didn’t really
care anyway, was just asking.”

“I was with OC,” Emily said. Then, before she could stop
herself, she added: “We stole some girl’s food.” 

“Oh really? What did you get?” Buell asked. If there was any
trace of disapproval in her older brother’s tone, Emily couldn’t detect it. “And
who from?”

“The little girl up the street.”

“Butch’s daughter?”

Emily nodded. Buell whistled through his teeth.

“That’s brave sis.”

No it isn’t, 
Emily knew.
 It’s selfish
and cruel. 
“We stole her cinnamon rolls and cookies. I feel really bad
about it.”

“She goes to Mooreland Elementary, right?” Buell asked. “I’ve
seen her on the road lots of times.”

“Her name is Mary Munro,” Emily replied in relief. With how
bad she felt, it was nice to get it off her chest, and she knew that Buell
wouldn’t tell mom and dad. They had an unspoken agreement between them to not
rat each other out. She could never tell her sister, Janis, who would go right
to her parents with the information. But Buell could be trusted.

“Cinnamon rolls,” Buell mused. “I haven’t had one of those
in forever. I might have to steal from her one of these days.”

“You can’t,” Emily blurted, then blushed. “I mean you
shouldn’t. It’s wrong.” 

She knew her brother would never see her flushed face, but
it was embarrassing nonetheless. She expected some sort of snarky comeback from
Buell, teasing her for defending the same girl she just stole from earlier
today. 

Instead, he said: