Once Beyond a Time (25 page)

“But there isn’t, Sheldon. You’re limited, just as I am.”

“Yes, I’m limited. I understand that. But if only I could know the why of it all, the reason God allowed Digger to be taken from us. Do you think I’ll ever know the reason?”

“Yes, I do believe you’ll understand someday.”

“But not in this life, I suppose.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “For as long as we hear the ticking of the clocks, we’ll know only in part. Later we’ll know more. Until then, we either bow to God’s sovereignty or we kick against the goads. The latter, as you know, is always a hopeless endeavor.”

I stop pacing and look at Gavan. “And the former?”

“The only hope we have.”

I take a deep breath, nod. He turns away, disappears. I fall to my knees by the side of the bed.

Three weeks, O Lord.

Three long weeks. You know where Digger is, but I am not privy to your thoughts. Heaven remains silent.

I press my forehead against the quilted bedspread and go on waiting.

Wednesday, October 9, 1968

T
HE LEAVES FALL
down, tumbling through the evening light as a sure sign autumn is here. Soon it won’t be leaves but snow, and we will find ourselves in winter. What was it C.S. Lewis said about Narnia? Always winter, never Christmas. We will live out our lives in Narnia now because for us, there will be no more Christmases. No Christmas and no spring. No Easter, no May Day, no midsummer nights. Only endless winter, our hearts frozen in time because our son is gone.

I sit by the hearth in the kitchen, rereading the letter from Carl. He asks if we can postpone the funeral until he gets home because he wants to be there for his kid brother. Carl’s words hold a certain sweetness, but the idea of a funeral is repugnant to me. How can I bury my son before I know he is dead? How can I bury him when my heart clings to hope that he’s alive?

How can I bury my son, at any rate? We have no body. Can you have a funeral for someone who has simply disappeared?

I close my eyes, wanting to drift off, but am startled by a voice nearby. “My, my, you sure can tell fall is here. Look at those leaves.”

Celeste moves from the kitchen window and sits in the rocker across from me. She looks at me placidly, her brown eyes tender. Sheldon has
told me about his conversation with Gavan. Those in the future know, but they cannot tell.

“You know what’s happened, don’t you?” I say.

“Digger has disappeared.”

I nod.

She begins to rock slowly. “I know it’s been more than a month now. I wish I’d been allowed to see you sooner.”

Then I remember. “I did see you,” I tell her.

“You did?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“I saw you in town. You were about five years old.”

She looks puzzled. “Really?”

“Yes. I’m sure it was you. The little girl was named Celeste, and she was eating an ice cream cone.”

“Ah.” Celeste smiles. “Mama used to take me for ice cream often. We both had a weakness for it.”

“You had vanilla and she had a double dip of chocolate.”

Celeste’s eyes light up. “Yes, that was us. Were we in the shop?”

“No, I was sitting on the bench out front, and you joined me.”

She looks beyond my shoulder as though she is gazing through the years, back to 1968. “I don’t remember that,” she says. “We went to the ice cream parlor so many times, they all run together. Did we speak, you and I?”

I smile weakly. “I was crying, and you offered me some of your ice cream.”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” I say. “I didn’t accept your offer, but thank you. It somehow strengthened me.”

Celeste turns her gaze back to me and nods. “I’m glad then, Meg. I’ve been wondering why I haven’t been allowed to see you, but it seems I did see you after all. At least that once.”

We’re quiet for a moment. Then I say, “Who makes the rules, Celeste?”

“The rules?”

“You know, to all of this.” I wave a hand languidly. “Who allows us to see each other? Who decides when we see each other and when we don’t? Sheldon says it’s God. He says something about God being the Eternal Now. What do you think, Celeste? Do you think it’s God?”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I do. Mr. Valdez and I have had long talks about it. I know all about the Eternal Now, and I agree. This is somehow a gift from God.”

“Why, though?” I ask. “Why do you suppose it’s happening?”

“For the sake of love, I should think.”

“Love?”

“Everything God does is for the sake of love.”

“It is?”

“Of course.”

Of course? Everything? Even Digger’s disappearance?

I rise from the chair and walk to the window. The leaves fall down. I watch as though mesmerized by the colors drifting from the sky. I lose track of time until Celeste asks, “What are you thinking about, Meg?”

I turn to look at her. “I’m thinking that spring will never come again. Not really. Not without Digger.”

“Ah,” she says. Her eyes widen, and her brows go up. “Now I understand.”

“Understand what?”

She doesn’t answer. She rises too and takes a step toward me. “I wish I could put my arms around you and comfort you, but I can’t. But I’ve asked Gavan to help.”

“Gavan? How can he help?”

“I have asked him to give a message to Sheldon. Apparently, I am not allowed to see your husband. I can see only you.”

“A message?”

She nods. “I have to go check on Nicholas now. But I hope I’ll see you again soon.”

Before I can respond, she is gone. I hear footsteps on the stairs, but they are coming down, not going up. In another moment, Sheldon enters the kitchen. But of course, it is suppertime. I have let the afternoon get away, and I have nothing in the oven.

“Meg?”

“I’m sorry, Sheldon. We have some cold cuts in the fridge. I’ll have some sandwiches ready in a minute.”

“Oh no, it’s not that. It’s …”

“What, Sheldon?”

He is frowning, as though perplexed. “I’ve just been talking with Gavan. He said to give you a message from a Mrs. See.”

“Mrs. See?”

“Yes. Apparently, your friend Celeste works for her. She lives in Asheville.”

“Yes, I know who she is. You have a message from her? For me? She knows about me?”

“She must, yes. She told Celeste who told Gavan who told me. And I am to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Simply that spring will come. She says it may not seem like it now, but spring will come.”

The breath catches in my throat.

“Does that mean something to you?” Sheldon asks.

I try to nod. “I’m not sure what but, yes. Yes.”

He takes a step toward me, hesitantly. “There’s something else.”

I look at him expectantly. “What is it, Sheldon?”

“Something Celeste asked me to give you.”

I wait. He takes another step.

He says, “If you don’t mind, I—” He opens his arms. “She asked me to hold you.”

I gaze at him standing there, arms inviting me to him. “She did?” I whisper.

He nods.

I hold my breath and blink my eyes, but it is no use. The tears escape. “Is it all right?” I ask.

“Please.” He nods again.

I move to him, this stranger, father of my son. I lean my head into his shoulder, and his arms encircle me. Grief binds us because the grief is ours, his and mine. But we haven’t carried it together until this moment. Now, the weight lessens and comfort rushes in, rattling the chains and locks and tombs, and unearthing the memories of what our love had been. For the first time in months, I wonder whether someday we might know that love again.

Friday, October 11, 1968

T
HE YOUNG COUPLE
considering the ’63 Chevy Impala hasn’t been able to make up their minds so far. They’ve come over from Asheville three times since last week, have taken the car out for a test drive twice, and, even now, the husband is poking around under the hood like he’s looking for verification that the car somehow, in some way, has his name on it. It’s a nice vehicle, the SS 409 with four-speed manual transmission, which apparently is at the root of the problem as far as my making this sale goes. The wife keeps insisting they’d agreed to buy an automatic, a pact the husband apparently forgot the moment he set eyes on this sleek red Impala.

She’s sitting in the driver’s seat, using the rearview mirror to freshen her lipstick while her husband eyes every inch of the car’s inner workings.

“Remember what I told you, Lenny?” she hollers out the open window. “I’ve never driven a manual before, and I don’t want to start now. It’s too much extra work.”

“It’s a cinch, honey,” Lenny says. “Nothing to it. You’ll see.”

“But I just don’t understand this clutch thingy. I mean, I’ve only got two feet. How can I be working three pedals at once?”

“You don’t work three at once.” Lenny stands and slams the hood shut.
He wipes his hands on a handkerchief dug free from his pants pocket. “Listen, honey, I’ll teach you everything you need to know to drive it. Once you’ve got the hang of it, you’ll love it.”

She frowns. She closes up the lipstick tube and drops it in her purse. “Yeah, well, you’ve got to promise me you won’t yell if I make a mistake.” Her freshly painted bottom lip pokes out in a respectable pout.

“Aw, honey, you know I’d never yell at the most beautiful woman in the world,” he says.

Newlyweds, I’m guessing, or else this guy just really wants this car.

He leans in through the open window and kisses her. “What do you say, sweetie? Shall we take her home?”

From her smile, I assume he’s won her over.

“I guess she
would
look pretty sitting in the garage.”

The man lets go a whoop. “Now you’re talking,” he says, slapping the roof happily with an open palm.

He helps his wife out of the car and kisses her again as though I’m not standing right there, awaiting their decision. With one arm around his young wife’s shoulders and looking as though he’s just won the grand prize on “Let’s Make a Deal,” he turns to me and says, “Where do I sign?”

As I lead them to the office, my thoughts turn to Meg. We were just like this young couple once, she and I. In love and full of hope. I can almost remember what that was like. I can almost remember believing it would never change.

We step into the trailer, and I usher them to my desk. Ike Kerlee is out on the lot with another customer—though a still-smoking cigarette is slowly burning itself out in the ashtray on his desk. One of these days, he’s going to burn the trailer down and years of paperwork with it. I can’t say I’ll be sorry to see it go, though it might leave Steve in a bad frame of mind and Ike Kerlee without a job.

The husband and wife settle themselves in the two gray metal folding chairs across from me while I remove the proper paperwork from the
drawer. I tap the bottom edge of the papers on the desk to form a neat pile, then lay them down in front of me at a slight left-leaning angle. Picking up my ballpoint pen, I click open the retractable nub and am ready to gather the information I need to make this sale. I raise my eyes to the couple and notice that the woman looks quizzical. Her eyes go from my nameplate, to my face, down to the nameplate, back up to my face. It has been in the Asheville paper, and she has made the connection. I see the pity and the fear in her eyes. Hesitantly, she says, “You’re the one with the son …”

That’s all she says—though perhaps she should have said,
without
the son—but we all know what she means.

“Yes,” I say, nodding slightly.

The husband coughs, looks at his shoes. She glances at him, back at me. “We don’t have kids yet, but I can only imagine. I’m … I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

The man pulls out a cigarette, lights it. “The police still looking?” he asks.

“Not actively,” I say, “though the investigation is still open, of course.”

He takes a deep pull on the cigarette. She clutches her hands together in her lap. I suppose we all wish she hadn’t brought it up.

“Mr. Crane?” she says.

“Yes, Mrs. Sanderson?”

“Will you give your wife my condolences?”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“I don’t know how she can—” she stops herself, eyes roaming the room—“possibly manage,” she finishes.

I put the pen down and fold my hands on the top of the desk. I lean closer. “Well, you see,” I say, “there’s something my wife and I are both holding on to.” This may not be necessarily true for Meg yet, but I will speak for her.

They too lean closer, looking at me expectantly.

“There is one thing we know for sure,” I go on. “God is with our son or our son is with God. Either way, God is in this with us.”