Smith's Monthly #7 Read online

  Gary had a sinking feeling that he didn’t want to know where this was heading, but he just nodded and she went on.

  “After dancing a few times, I got this message that the President would like to talk to me. He told me I danced beautifully and wished he could join me.” She smiled, remembering an obviously joyful event.

  “He was sitting in a large overstuffed chair and when he said that, he reached down and knocked on his braces through his pants. ‘Not much chance of that,’ he said and then laughed as if it were funny. I laughed with him.”

  She swayed back and forth in time with the music as she talked. “I remember I was hot from the dancing and the humid evening, so I sat on the footstool in front of him and we talked for the next hour between interruptions of other guests and business from his advisors.”

  She looked up at Gary as the song continued. “You know it was that hour that I think I fell in love with him. I know that seems hard to believe, but it only took an hour. After that evening Ernest and I went back to England, but Franklin and I kept in touch and I saw him three or four times a year for the next few years.

  In 1936 I went back to Washington and divorced Ernest. Franklin and I saw each other much more during his second term, usually meeting in the home I owned in Maryland. Even though the people wanted him to, he decided to not run for a third term in 1940. He divorced Eleanor in 1941 and we were married the next year.”

  Suddenly she seemed to age and her face turned pale. “I’m sure you know he was executed right after the invasion of fifty-two. I’ve been alone ever since.”

  The last note of the song ended and faded into the dingy-looking room. Gary took a few deep breaths trying to calm the panic filling his stomach. Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God. What had he done? He picked up the arm of the record player and stopped the clicking.

  Invasion of ‘52?

  What was that?

  What had happened?

  Slowly, he looked around the room. The flowers were gone and the bed had become a wooden frame with nothing more than a stained mattress and a rumpled sheet on it. This was the first time that the changes in her story had actually come into her room. He had no memory of when they had happened, even though he had been sitting here the entire time. In her other stories he had always remembered what had changed, but had never been near anything when the change took place.

  Mrs. Simpson, or he would assume now, Mrs. Roosevelt, looked to be almost in a coma.

  Her eyes were glassy and she seemed about to collapse. Only the belt strapping her to the wheelchair held her upright.

  He patted her hand and thanked her, but she paid no attention. He stood and turned for the door. His legs felt weak and his stomach twisted as if he had just been caught with his pants down in front of the entire school.

  “Tomorrow?” he asked as he reached her door, not really wanting to go beyond it. But again she didn’t notice his question.

  Even though it was still mid-afternoon, the hall was almost dark, with only a few bare bulbs in the ceiling fixtures. The smell was of a musty attic, and the floor was stained and unwashed. Very, very different from the modern nursing home he had entered less than an hour before.

  This felt more like a jail for the elderly.

  At the end of the hall, near the entrance hung a huge sign in a foreign language Gary didn’t recognize. All he had taken in school was French and he hadn’t really paid much attention to that. Behind an old wood desk where the nurses station had been when he came in was an old guard wearing a black uniform and reading a tattered paperback novel.

  As Gary took a deep breath and started toward the front door he remembered.

  He remembered what life had been like before she told her story and what life was now like for him in this world. Memories like clear plastic, one over the other, flooded into his mind.

  This time he remembered his dad. In this world he had a father who had not disappeared when he was five. In this world Germany had joined with Russia and won World War Two. Japan controlled the West coast of what had been the United States and Maryland was now nothing more than a German satellite state.

  And in this world his dad was a drunk who beat him and his mother. His dad never worked and blamed his mother for almost everything that was wrong in the world. He was an ugly, sadistic man who hated everything and everyone around him. Nothing like the dream father Gary had imagined him to be.

  Gary staggered against the wall out of sight of the guard and forced himself to take deep breaths like the Coach had taught him to do in pressure games. How did Roosevelt not running for President in 1940 cause America to lose the war?

  How could one woman change the world so much?

  It wasn’t possible, yet Gary knew it was.

  And how could his father hit him?

  Gary looked down at his arm where the angry red bruise had appeared.

  He looked quickly in both directions down the hall. His memory of the clean, modern nursing home overlaid the prison-like feel of this old building.

  But his memories of the world before were quickly fading. He would have to get Mrs. Simpson to switch it all back, to tell a new story. But what if her new story was worse than even this? What would happen if in the next world he hadn’t even been born?

  Then what would happen?

  He wanted to pound his fists against the wall and scream. Why hadn’t he thought of that before now? How could he have been so stupid, hoping that he could find a world where he would know his dad? Well, it had worked and he had real vivid memories of his father now. Real vivid memories bruises and beatings and of wishing his father were dead, night after night, over and over again.

  He eased back into Mrs. Simpson’s room. She still sat beside the old phonograph, her eyes glazed.

  “Mrs. Simpson, I mean Mrs. Roosevelt?” Gary said, sitting down across from her and keeping his voice low. “Would you mind telling me a story about your life?”

  Nothing. She didn’t move and Gary passed a hand in front of her unseeing eyes. No blink.

  Nothing.

  As far as he knew she might have been like this for years in this world. Maybe there was no going back. He took a few more deep breaths to fight off the panic, but this time it didn’t seem to help. “Mrs. Roosevelt. Can you hear me? Please talk to me.”

  He shook her shoulders, slowly at first, and then harder, but her blank stare went right through him.

  He stood and paced back and forth in front of the door. He had enough memories of this new world to know that if he was caught in here, he would be in trouble.

  Big trouble.

  Carefully he poked his head out and looked toward the guard. The old guy was still reading and except for a low moaning coming from a room down the hall, everything was the same. No movement.

  Nothing.

  Gary went back and shook Mrs. Roosevelt one more time without luck. She was dead to this world. And now he was stuck here.

  Footsteps came from down the hall and Gary quickly darted in behind the open door. The guard passed by, walked to the end of the hall, and went into a room there, letting the door bang closed behind him. The banging echoed down the hall and Gary turned to see if Mrs. Roosevelt had noticed.

  She still sat there blankly staring over the old record player. And for a minute Gary stared at it, too, remembering what she had said and remembering the words of the song she loved so much.

  That just might do the trick.

  Gary quickly stuck his head out the door to check on where the guard had gone, then went over to the old machine. It was still on and still had the record of Paper Moon in place. Maybe that would take her back to the party and both of them out of this nightmare.

  He listened for a moment to make sure the guard had not come back out of the room, then put the needle in place and started the record. As the first few notes filled the room he wanted to stop it. It sounded so loud, far loud enough to bring the guard.

  He went to the door quickly and checked the hall. The ope
ning of the song seemed to be amplified in the stark hallway. It could be heard all over the building, he was sure.

  He went back over to Mrs. Roosevelt and again shook her shoulders. “Wake up! Please? “I’m playing your song for you.”

  Slowly, he felt some life come back into her shoulders where he held her.

  He let go and sat down. After a few bars Mrs. Roosevelt’s eyes flickered and she smiled faintly.

  “Tell me about the party,” Gray said, trying to keep his voice under control and not panic filled. “Tell me who you met there at the White House. Please?” He glanced at the door and then back to her.

  “Why,” she said, her voice gaining strength and power with each word. “I met the President and the First Lady and lots of others. It was a wonderful party and I danced and danced all night. You know, after Edward and I were married I thanked him for getting me invited to that party by taking him on a tour of Washington D.C. It was such a sweet thing for him to do, don’t you think?”

  “Edward?” Gary asked. “Who was Edward?”

  Mrs. Roosevelt laughed, a strong, hearty laugh. “You are teasing me, aren’t you? Why, he was the Prince of Wales and then the King of England. After his abdication we were married. I am the Duchess of Windsor.”

  She reached over and patted Gary’s hand. “A young man like you should study his history more.”

  Gary only nodded in agreement and glanced around at the room. The air shimmered like a heat wave had hit it and the layers of the dark prison-like room faded away, replaced with a modern nursing home room.

  And the old record player was also shimmering and fading, as was Mrs. Simpson. In her place sat an elderly gentleman named Harrison and he was finishing a story about how he fought in the Pacific and how the kids of today just didn’t understand how important history was and how smart it was for Gary’s history teacher to have them do this assignment.

  Gary agreed, quickly thanked the man, and headed for the front door.

  The relief washed over Gary as he went down the hall.

  He felt light, almost like dancing. He could still remember his dad from the other world, but it was fading into the background like remembering a bad nightmare, pushed into the corners by the warm sun and the smiles of the nurses. He doubted if he would ever again wish for a father he didn’t have.

  And for one final time, faintly from down the hall, he thought he heard Wallis Simpson say, “Thanks for believing in me.”

  TIME’S WINDOW

  Angie Bennett, at ninety-three, could no longer smell

  her own soiled diapers, the thick sour smell

  of disinfectant the nursing home used,

  the fresh daises or roses that sat on her nightstand every day.

  Angie Bennett, at ninety-four, could no longer talk,

  laugh at her son’s bad jokes,

  or even make goggle-goggle noises to her great-grandchild.

  The stroke had taken that ability as well.

  Angie Bennett, at ninety-five, had a body that had failed her,

  but a mind as strong as ever, trapped in her head,

  waiting to be released with the comfort of death.

  No one outside her body knew this. She couldn’t tell them.

  Angie Bennett, at ninety-six, watched the nurse every morning

  open the blinds on her window.

  Through that glass Angie stared at first

  into the happy moments of her past.

  Angie Bennett, at ninety-seven, wondered why her grandson

  instead of her son came to see her every Wednesday.

  Then she saw through her window that her son had died,

  saw her grandchild become a United States Senator.

  Angie Bennett, at ninety-eight, watched the future

  unfold for her though her window, all the marvels,

  all the bad events, all the accomplishments

  of her family and the human race.

  Angie Bennett, at ninety-nine, could have saved millions

  of lives if someone would have figured a way to talk to her,

  ask her about her life, about the window into the future.

  If someone would have cared enough to bother.

  Angie Bennett, on her one-hundredth birthday, died,

  taking with her the knowledge of her family, of the country,

  of the world, of the human race.

  A part of history, a part of the future, died with her.

  What Came Before...

  Nineteen-year-old Boston native Jimmy Gray had been traveling with his parents and older brother, Luke, headed west to find a new home and new riches. Before even reaching Independence, they were attacked and robbed by Jake Benson and his gang. Jimmy’s parents were killed, his brother wounded.

  In one of the wildest towns in all of American history, Jimmy Gray, a sheltered, educated son of a banker from Boston, suddenly finds himself very, very much alone. But then through some luck, he finds other young men about his age and down on their luck who might be able to help him.

  Together, the five of them head west after Benson.

  They end up hunting buffalo as he always dreamed of doing, but then they are hit with a massive flash flood and Jimmy is left alone, his friends more than likely dead.Luckily, they all meet up again and are all safe. So they continue west, knowing that Benson is just ahead of them.

  Suddenly they come upon Benson and his men killing a farm family. They manage to get one of the men separated from the others, but in a fall he accidently dies. So they scatter to meet up later at a camp.

  THE LIFE AND TIMES OF BUFFALO JIMMY

  Part Nineteen

  BACK TOGETHER

  THEY HAD ALL ARRIVED IN CAMP SAFELY, with Long coming in last because he had wanted to make sure where Benson had gone. Long had the ability, because he was part Indian, to move silently and get amazingly close to things without ever being seen.

  He told them that Benson and the other two killers had waited for their man for a while at the homestead, poked around a bit, then finally started down the trail at a good speed, clearly trying to put distance between them and the burning homestead.

  Long said that there had been a lot of swearing and that Benson thought their “friend” had taken the horses and headed back up the trial, leaving them.

  Or maybe the Indians had gotten him.

  Good news to Jimmy. They did not suspect they were behind them.

  Jimmy still posted three guards that night, and they hadn’t built a fire. They didn’t dare let Benson find them, not after what Benson had done to that family.

  Jimmy hadn’t slept much at all, and the only time he managed to fall asleep, he had a nightmare of the dead killer and the family standing and politely applauding. It was a horrid nightmare that woke him up sweating and made him take over guard duty an hour sooner than he was supposed to.

  He couldn’t believe he had killed a man. Even as an accident, did that make him as bad as Benson? He tried to push that thought away, but it kept coming back over and over all night long.

  The next morning, Long scouted ahead and finally found Benson and his two remaining men moving west down the California Trail. They seemed to be pacing behind a small wagon company.

  An hour later, they headed back and arrived back at the homestead and slowly dismounted. The building was still smoldering, sending a thin line of smoke into the clear blue sky.

  “We need to bury these folks,” Zach said, picking up the shovel the boy had been carrying when he was shot in the back.

  Jimmy nodded and looked around. The ridge where he and the others had watched yesterday would be perfect. “Up there, where they can stand watch for all time over their homestead.”

  Silently, all six boys went looking for what it was going to take to dig three graves, get the bodies up the hill, and get this done.

  Two long hours later, they were all hot and sweating, but they had the family in the ground with crosses over each grave. It reminded Jimmy far to
o much of when he and his brother had buried his parents.

  Benson had to be stopped.

  “I wish we knew their names,” C. J. said.

  “The Goose Creek family,” Josh said. “As long as we remember them, they will live on.”

  “No way to forget this,” Truitt said. “I’m going to be having nightmares for months.”

  “Yeah, me too,” both Jimmy and Zach said at the same time.

  “Should we do anything about him?” Zach asked, pointing to the trees where the body of the killer was.

  “Let the animals have him,” Long said, disgusted.

  “He was a human,” C.J. said, taking his glasses off his face and wiping sweat from his forehead. “He deserves something.”

  “He killed this family,” Zach said, pointing up the hill at the graves they had just dug. “He doesn’t deserve anything.”

  “We’ll put some rocks on him,” Jimmy said, staring up into the trees.

  He was having enough trouble with the death of the killer. He couldn’t have the thought of animals getting the man in his mind.

  “I’ll help you,” Truitt said.

  All six boys helped, and in fifteen minutes they had the man under a cairn of rocks. They didn’t mark the grave.

  As they came out of the trees toward the barn, a stage came into sight from the west, pulled by a team of six horses.

  During the trip west, they had passed a number of large wagons and stages going east. All of the stages had been Butterfield Stages, carrying mostly letters and a few passengers who didn’t mind getting tossed around inside a stagecoach for a few thousand miles.

  The stage pulled up in a wide area just off the trail and the boys went down to meet it.

  “What happened?” the driver asked, his hand on his gun. His co-driver had his rifle up and ready.

  Jimmy understood their fear. The house had been burned down, and these two men had no idea that Jimmy and his friends hadn’t done it.