Once Beyond a Time (6 page)

Monday, July 15, 1968

A
T LEAST THIS
house is in a clearing, so I can catch some rays. Too bad the batteries in my radio gave out, or I could lie here and listen to some rock. What I wouldn’t give for an hour of the Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix. I’d even listen to Sonny and Cher right now, if it’d make me forget where I am. But then again, the radio stations around here probably don’t play anything but hillbilly music, so that’s not going to do me any good.

About the only thing that’s the same down here as back home is the sun. It feels nice and warm on my oiled skin. I lie here with my eyes shut, pretending I’m not here, but there. Back home with my friends. With Brian. What I wouldn’t give to have had a chance with Brian.

Yeah, so dream on. He’s probably hooked up with Carla Herbicek by now. She always did have a thing for him, and now her toughest competition’s been exiled to Possum Holler, and she’s probably already wearing his class ring on a chain around her neck. I hate my life.

So today’s Dad’s first day at the car lot, and while I’d rather be a salesman’s daughter than a pastor’s daughter, the fact is I’m nothing but the daughter of a hypocrite. I hope he hates the new job. It would serve him right.

After lunch, Aunt Donna came by to take Mom shopping at the A&P. “Want to come, Linda?” she asked. She was all cheerful, like she’s offering to take me somewhere exciting. Shopping at the A&P? Like, what, I’m supposed to want to go see what’s new in frozens or something?

“No, thanks, Aunt Donna,” I said. “I think I’ll stay here and work on my tan.”

Digger wanted to go though. He said he wanted to see Sutton Avenue all burned down. Mom and Aunt Donna looked at each other like Digger’s crazy or something, and Aunt Donna said, “There wasn’t a fire downtown, Digger.” And Mom added, “Where’d you hear that?” And Digger said Mac told him about it this morning. And Mom said, “Who’s Mac?” because she didn’t hear Digger talking to Gloria Reynolds about him, so she doesn’t know yet about Digger’s imaginary friend. So Digger said, “He’s a kid who lives around here,” and even though Mom looked a little skeptical she said, “Well, he was just pulling your leg,” and Digger said, “Yeah, I thought so.” The thing is, though, I’m beginning to wonder whether Digger isn’t maybe a little bit crazy for real, what with making up this Mac guy and talking about him like he’s really there.

Uncle Steve’s supposed to give Dad a couple of Chevys. Criminy! Dad has to pay for one, but Uncle Steve’s giving him the other one, a used car, just giving it to him to drive around because he says it’s advertising for Birchfield Chevrolet. Uncle Steve must be making a heap of money off that dump of a car lot to be able to afford to give Dad a car. And their house—sheesh. Big as a mansion and everything brand new. They had the place built—designed it themselves, for crying out loud. I could tell Mom was jealous when we walked in the front door on Saturday after that little tour of the town. I know exactly what she was thinking: I could have lived in a nice place like this if I hadn’t married a loser. Sad thing is, she’s right. We’ll never live in a place like that. Never. At least Mom won’t. I will, though. I’m not marrying a loser. No way.

So Dad said I can have the old station wagon to drive because even
though he has to drive a Chevy it’s all right if I drive a Pontiac. So whoop-de-do. The ugliest car on God’s green earth, and I have to be seen behind the wheel. Not that it matters around here. Who cares who sees me? It’ll get me to work anyway, when I start working at the ice cream parlor. Yeah, so I took the job. Called old Gloria this morning and told her I’d do it. She started hooting and hollering again like she’d just won the sweepstakes from Publishers Clearing House. Like hiring me was the best thing that ever happened to her. She said she’s glad to have the help, but I should take a week to “get settled” and then start working next Saturday night. I’m not exactly thrilled about the job, but I might as well earn some money. Maybe then, at the end of the year, I can buy that one-way ticket out of here.

I should have told Mom to bring back some soft drinks. I’m working up a thirst here and—oh great, the sun’s gone behind a cloud.

I open my eyes to see how big the cloud is when I see that the shadow on my face isn’t from a cloud but from some guy who’s standing right at the edge of the blanket I’m lying on. He’s just standing there like he’s frozen, and he’s got this shocked look on his face like he’s just stumbled across a dead body in the road or something. I scream, and he jumps about a foot. When I’m done ripping my throat up, and he’s made no move to attack me, I feel brave enough to yell at him, “Who are you and what do you want?”

By now, he’s got his eyes scrunched up into little tight slits, and his face is burning red, and he’s kind of hopping from one foot to the other.

“What do you want?” I scream again.

“I don’t want anything! Honest!”

“Well, who are you and why are you here?”

He’s still got his eyes closed when he says, “Why are you lying out here in your undergarments?”

“My undergarments?” I sit up. I look at the guy with his eyes screwed up, two little prunes in the middle of his face like he wants to look at me
but he’s afraid to look at me all at the same time. Is he for real? “Look,” I say, “first of all, what kind of a word is undergarments? I mean, that went out with the last century, didn’t it? And second of all, don’t you know a bathing suit when you see one?”

“Well,” he blurts out, “that’s not like any bathing suit I’ve ever seen!”

“You’ve never seen a bikini before?”

“No, ma’am! Never!”

“Figures,” I say, “living like you do out here in the backwoods. Women probably swim in bloomers around here. Heck, probably swim fully dressed, for all I know. You can open your eyes now. I’ve got the blanket wrapped around me. And don’t call me ma’am like you think I’m an old lady or something.”

He opens one eye, sees I’m telling the truth about the blanket, opens the other eye. What an idiot.

He’s not bad looking, though. In fact, he’s really cute. He’s about my age or a year or two older. Tall, blond and—from what I can tell with all those clothes he’s wearing—he’s built pretty well. Intense blue eyes, now that I can see them. The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt and overalls. Huge clodhopper boots on his feet, and an old cloth cap on his head. I can’t imagine why he’s dressed like that in this heat.

“So what do you want?” I ask again, more quietly this time.

“Nothing. Like I said.”

“Well, what are you doing here, then?”

He looks at me like he can’t understand what I’m saying. Then he says, “I live here.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“In this house?” I point to our house.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Oh sure,” I say. “And I’m Lady Bird Johnson.”

“Who?”

This is getting weirder by the minute. “You know. Lady Bird Johnson? The First Lady?”

He looks confused. I go on. “The wife of the president? Or maybe the news hasn’t reached this backwater yet. Of course, I forgot. Johnson’s only been in office five years. Not enough time for the news to reach these hills.”

He takes a step backward, like any minute he’s going to haul tail out of here.

“So what’s your name?” I ask. I’ve decided I don’t want him to leave quite yet. This may be my only chance to set my eyes on a good-looking guy for the next year.

“Austin,” he says slowly like he doesn’t really want to tell me. “Austin Buchanan.”

“Well, Austin Buchanan, I’m Linda Crane.”

He nods and tips his cap. Tips his cap! “Glad to meet you,” he says, though he doesn’t sound glad at all, he just sounds kind of scared.

“Sure. Now, listen, this is private property, so why don’t you tell me what you want? You a Fuller Brush man or something?”

“A what?”

“You selling brushes?”

“No.” He holds up his palms. “I’m not selling anything. I just got off work, and I’m coming home. I’m a little—um, surprised to see you here.”

“Yeah, well, I’m
more
than a little surprised to see
you
here.”

“But I told you, I live here.”

I take a deep breath. “Listen, Austin, you seem like a nice guy and all, but one of us is taking one heck of a wild trip, and unfortunately it isn’t me.”

“A wild trip?”

“Yeah. You know, acid? Speed? But then again, I guess the only stuff you do around here is—what was it Jeff said you guys smoked? Corn silk? Cow patties?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I haven’t been smoking anything except regular tobacco. All I know is, I live here, and I’ve just come home to eat my dinner. Now you probably better put some clothes on and clear on out of here before my father sees you and starts shooting.”

I can’t help laughing at that. “Oh yeah, right. You mountain boys are crazier than I thought. Plus, I’m getting darn hot under this blanket trying to protect your virgin eyes. So you listen to me, Austin Buchanan. I’m going to shut my eyes and count to three, and when I open them, you’d better be gone.”

With that, I open the blanket and lay face down, my forehead on my arms. “One!” I hear shuffling, the sound of footsteps. “Two!” A scurrying, then everything’s quiet. “Three!”

When I roll back over, he’s gone. I’m a little relieved and a little disappointed both. If I weren’t here completely alone—if Mom or Dad were in the house—I might have invited him to hang out for a while, strange as he was. Strange, but good looking. No sir, they don’t come much better looking than that, even in Pennsylvania.

Tuesday, July 16, 1968

I
STAND AT
the counter packing a lunch for Sheldon while he sits at the kitchen table, drinking his morning coffee. We used to drink our morning coffee together. We’d talk about the children, talk about the day ahead. He used to put his hand on mine on the tabletop, rub my knuckles gently with his thumb.

Not anymore.

As I work I feel his eyes on my back, and I don’t like it. This being alone together in the same room is awkward. Imagine, twenty years of marriage, and now we are strangers. I simply can’t get over that.

More and more I think about leaving him. Striking out on my own. Starting a new life. What keeps me here? Fear, I think, plain and simple. Fear of being on my own when I’ve never been on my own. Can I muster up the courage to leave?

As though he senses my thoughts, I hear Sheldon sigh. Instead of looking at him, I look out the window.

“Meg,” he says.

My jaw tightens. “Yes?”

He hesitates a moment, then says, “I just want you to know I miss you. I miss being married to you.”

I don’t respond. His words have fanned that ever-burning flame of anger that hangs in my chest. I want to strike out, but I do nothing, say nothing. I don’t even turn from the window.

Another sigh, like a wave of despair rolling over the room. “Listen, Meg,” he says quietly, “I’m not just talking about making love to you, though heaven knows I miss that. But I’m talking about everything. Everything. I simply miss being with you, talking with you, holding your hand. You don’t have to say or do anything right now. I just want you to know I still have hope that someday we can get back to where we were.”

I finally whirl toward him. “Back to where we were? How can we, Sheldon? How can we ever go back?”

“I think we can, if you’ll just forgive me.”

My eyes grow wide. “Just forgive you? Just like that, as though nothing ever happened?” I shake my head hard. “How can I ever forgive you?”

He laces his fingers together on the table and squeezes until his knuckles grow white. “I know you’re angry, Meg, and I understand—”

“Oh, I’m way beyond angry, Sheldon, and I don’t think you understand at all.”

The room falls silent. Sheldon’s eyes hold more hurt than I have ever seen before. Good. Let him hurt, just as I do.

He takes a deep breath. “Will we go the rest of our lives like this, then? Because this isn’t really a marriage, you know.”

“No, this isn’t a marriage, but I’m not the one who destroyed what we had.”

“I know, Meg. I know. I take full blame. And now I’m asking you again to forgive me. In our life together, you’ve always forgiven me before, for so many things.”

“In our life together, you were never unfaithful before. This isn’t forgetting to take out the trash or running over my flower garden with the lawn mower, Sheldon.”

“No. No,” he agrees. “It isn’t. But listen, I’m willing to give you as
much time as you need.”

“Time?” I echo. “Will time change anything?”

“I can only pray so,” he says.

For a moment, I almost feel sorry for him. For a moment, I almost want to give in and tell him I forgive him, tell him I want to try. But the hurt is too deep and the anger too overwhelming, and the strange thing, is I know they exist in proportion to how much I love him.

I wish I didn’t love him anymore. That would make everything so much easier.

Sheldon rises and carries his empty coffee cup to the sink. Right beside me now, he lifts a hand to my shoulder, and I flinch. He pulls back.