Emit Read online

  But when I saw the picture on the can, I couldn’t help but stick out my tongue. Corned beef. Yuck! Back when Grandmom was around, we’d trade in our ration tickets at the meat market and the baker’s. But Dad doesn’t have time for that. So even though the restrictions are over, we’re stuck eating tin-flavored everything.

  Once, I asked why we couldn’t buy one of those cold-air boxes like they have next door. “It’s supposed to keep your food real fresh,” I explained.

  But Dad said we didn’t need one. “Overseas, men would have given an arm for a can of meat,” he added. And just like that, the case was closed.

  Wondering what kinds of tongues men from overseas have, I shoved the fork of brisket into my mouth. It was tough and slimy and tasted like aluminum, but I forced myself to eat. After all, rules are rules. No leaving the table until my plate’s been licked clean and no presents until after having left the table.

  When the long-awaited moment finally came, Dad handed over the package with the biggest smile I’d ever seen on his face. “Nothing would make me prouder than to see my son following in my footsteps,” he beamed.

  I felt proud, too. A picture of me and my dad swelled up in my mind. Together, crouching down on the frontline, perched proudly like eagles over our guns. We were wearing matching green jackets studded with golden buttons gleaming in the sunlight.

  But as the paper fell in shreds on the floor, my jaw went along with it. It wasn’t the German P-38 with the leather holster I asked for. It wasn’t a souvenir pistol, at all. Do you want to guess what my dad got me for my birthday? Give up?

  A shovel. A dirt-encrusted metal shovel with a wooden handle in the shape of a capital T. My cheeks burned as I held back the tears.

  When Dad said all that stuff about following in his footsteps, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. When I grow up, I want to be a soldier! That way I can have a gun and be a real big shot with lots of shiny buttons. People always say my dad was a real hero before I knew him! I’d much rather be a hero than a dirty old miner!

  “But…but…Dad?”

  “Yeah, Chief?”

  “I think there’s a mistake. For my birthday, I wanted a German…”

  “Yeah, about that,” he maintained. “I’m afraid I’m not fond of the idea of you getting involved with guns and the like.”

  “But I already told Willy I was getting the P-38! We were supposed to play soldier together since he got the souvenir rifle for his birthday last month.”

  “Sorry, Chief. I guess you’ll have to tell your friend you didn’t get that pistol, after all. Anyway, what you should start focusing on is digging. That’s what’s important.”

  I wanted to argue, but I knew it was of no use. Dad’s mind was made.

  This morning, when I stopped by to tell Willy the bad news, he said maybe it’d be better off if I didn’t come out to play today. “Unless you want to dig the graves for all the enemies I shoot down,” he snickered.

  I obviously declined.

  It’s no fair! If I had gotten that stinking revolver, I’d be out there winning the war. After all, today I’m six and a day, and from my understanding, that’s precisely when wars are won. But instead, I’m stuck all by myself in this kitchen still reeking of tinned beef. I look down at the dirty old shovel and wonder if there’s ever been an unluckier kid in the history of all time.

  Dropping my head downheartedly into my hands, my elbow slides across a gummy glob of gelatin left from last night’s dinner. Probably not, I decide, my face skidding across the wood.

  Let’s hope my luck changes by this afternoon. Dad must feel sorry for me about the big birthday letdown, because he’s promised to take me to the Independence Day Fair when he gets back from work. He said we’ll watch the three-legged races and if I’m real good, I can try my luck at the pie-eating contest. This is key, because like I already mentioned, I’m not a fan of canned foods. If I manage to eat a whole pie, I bet Dad’ll let me off the hook for supper.

  I’m wondering what kind of pies they use for the contest, when this horrible noise drills straight into my daydream. It’s a shrill whistling paired with a deep, walloping buzz that keeps going on and on.

  I climb to the window and rip open the ruffled curtains. A wavy line of smoke is rising up against the horizon.

  “Applesauce! It’s the Germans!”

  I grab my shovel and head for the front door. But when I get there, I chicken out. I mean, even if I am six and a day, there’s no way I can face a band of Nazis alone. Instead, I take a detour at the living room, bound up the stairs and disappear into my bedroom.

  Images of army tanks keep me glued under the bed long after the sound of Dad’s Ford Deluxe comes screeching into the driveway. The engine cuts out, the front door swings open, and footsteps stomp across the linoleum floor. I’m cowering in fear. It’s only after my dad’s voice comes echoing up to meet me that I manage to give up my hiding spot and totter warily down the steps.

  “What on Earth?” He throws his arms up in bewilderment. “What were you doing up there with your shovel? You should know better than that, Chief. Shovels are for digging in the dirt, not for taking into the bedroom.”

  “I heard a loud noise. It…it was the Germans! I was going to…”

  “Now that’s poppycock! Can you see why I don’t want you having one of those guns? It gets you thinking all the wrong kinds of thoughts.”

  He pulls me onto his knee and smooths my hair, which is all mussed up from crawling under the dust ruffle. “Listen, son. The war is over. And so much the better. People spend too much time going against each other when they ought to be working together. But that’s a whole different battle. What’s important is you’re safe here.”

  I don’t know what battle he’s talking about, but I do know what I heard. “I’m telling the truth, Dad. Honest! There was a real loud noise and I saw smoke, too.”

  “Oh, did you?” I can tell from his tone he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “You know what I think? I think it’s about time we head to that fair.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a couple of pennies and hands them to me. “What do you say, Chief?”

  I want to say he should believe me. I want to tell him I know what I saw. But instead, I shove the pennies in my pocket and bottle it up. After all, you don’t have to be a mathematician to follow this correlation: the more I talk, the lesser my chances of pie become.

  It’s already mid-afternoon when we head out to the fair. Dad clinks the door shut without bothering locking it. “We couldn’t be in a safer town than Corona,” he repeats for the billionth time. He’s never worried about anything. Unlike me. I’m always worried about something or another. Right now it’s that, by the time we get there, there’ll be no pie left. The neighbors have been gone for hours, and Corona’s looking like a ghost town.

  Well, almost. Just as we step onto the sidewalk, one of those brand-new Buicks comes speeding down the road like a blue streak. It passes us before slamming on the brakes and backing up as fast as it first flew past. The man in the car is all worked up.

  “What’s a matter with you?” Dad screams as a man hardly taller than I am leaps out of the car. Wearing a full-out zoot suit with a double chain swooping down from his belt loop and disappearing into his pocket, this guy’s clearly a bigwig. But Dad doesn’t seem to care. “Don’t you see this is a residential area? You can’t be driving through here like that!”

  “I saw it myself! It’s horrible!” A crazed look flashes in his eye.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Dad takes a step forward, but the man doesn’t back down. Instead he pulls out his ID card and hands it to my dad.

  “My name’s Monty Bristol and I was driving
through when it happened. I saw it all!”

  “Now you calm down a minute there, Mr. Bristol.” Dad hands back the man’s papers. “What exactly did you see?”

  “In the sky! I saw it! The flying saucer!”

  “I don’t know what you think you saw, sir, but I’m wagering it wasn’t a flying saucer.”

  “I’m sure of it!” Monty exclaims. “’Cause I followed it and I shot it down.”

  Dad lets out a long sigh. “This is a bit out of my pay grade. Why don’t I take you down to Sheriff Johnson’s office? I’m sure he’ll be able to help you better than I can.” Then he turns to me with a frown. “Look, Chief. I know I said we’d go to the fair, but something’s come up. I should be back by dark. If you’re still up, I’ll take you to see the fireworks.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “What lies behind us and what lies before us are

  tiny matters compared to what lies within us.”

  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

  TWO

  THE PLACE WHERE JOURNEYS START

  The dust settles as the two cars vanish into the distance. I stomp into the house without bothering taking off my shoes. I’m not sure if I’m madder at Dad for not believing me or for calling off a day filled with pie-eating.

  Either way, I don’t see why I should miss out because Dad’s a fat-head.

  I’m about to head off to the fair on my own when I get a better idea. I grab the shovel from where it’s leaning against the banister, sling it over my shoulder, and slam the door shut behind me. I march back to the exact spot on the sidewalk where I was standing when that fancy pants, Monty Bristol, rode up to steal my dad away. Only instead of following them left, I turn right.

  Zigzagging through the neighborhood, I try to keep in mind exactly where I saw the line of smoke rising into the air earlier. Once out on the highway, I regain my bearings and advance toward the 247. Destination unknown.

  Golly, that sounds ultra-dramatic. Actually, half of me thinks this whole flying saucer thing is a bunch of gobbledygook. I mean, nothing happens here in New Mexico, unless you count herding sheep and mining rocks. Plus, I don’t even believe in Martians.

  Only the other part of me isn’t so sure as my first half. I’m six, for goodness sakes! How do I know little green men don’t live on other planets? Or pink or blue men, for that matter? What if I do find a flying disk and aliens are inside of it? What if they attack me?

  I’m suddenly wishing I’d gotten that P-38 Pistol more than ever. How am I supposed to protect myself against an army of laser-gun equipped Martians? Hit them in the kisser with a dirty old shovel? Good grief.

  I’m not sure if it’s the sweltering sun, the weight of the shovel, or the panic about being vaporized, but the sweat’s pouring out like a faucet. The road looks like it goes on and on forever, with scorched earth painted on either side as far as the eye can see. My mouth is as dry as the blacktop and I regret not having gotten a drink before I left. As the handful of coins clinks around in my pocket, I glance longingly to where Jake’s Corner Market lays hidden behind the line of dusty hills. And that’s when I see it. A hotrod heading in my direction!

  It’s a real stroke of luck when the car pulls up next to me. “Need a lift?”

  I nod feverishly.

  “Your parents gonna be okay with me letting you hitch a ride?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where you headin’, son?” the man with the black fedora asks.

  What am I supposed to say? Out to find a spaceship ‘cause Mr. Fancy Pants said he shot one out of the sky? That’s sure to work like a charm. Not. “Just a ways down, if that’s alright. I forget what it’s called,” I fudge, “but my dad says I’ll know when I see it.”

  “Okie dokie. When you see it, give me a holler.”

  I throw my things in the back, thank the man, and hop in.

  “Real nice shovel you got there,” he says, shifting into drive.

  I let out a long sigh. “I got it for my birthday. I wanted a German P-38 Pistol.”

  He must hear the disappointment in my voice because he starts jabbering on about how great shovels are. I begin wishing I’d left the darned thing home. “Think about it, kiddo,” he says, “when you’ve got a gun all you can do is shoot. When you’ve got a shovel, you can dig yourself anywhere.”

  I feel like I’ve heard this sermon before. Is there some kind of mind-linking superpower adults share? I sure hope not! That’d be awful rotten!

  I suppose we’ve been driving for a good twenty minutes when something catches my eye. Off to my right, the cornfield’s all hazy like it’s sitting inside a cloud.

  Holy mackerel! That’s not haze! It’s smoke! “If you could stop here, that’d be just fine,” I squeal.

  As the car slows, I can hardly wait to jump out. As soon as I hit the ground, I’m running.

  “Hey, kid!” the man calls out. “You forgot your shovel!”

  I scuttle back to the car, fetch my shovel and call out, “Thanks again, Mister!” With a tip of his black fedora, the man revs the engine and disappears behind a screen of yellow dust.

  The ground spreads unevenly below my feet, but I dash into the field faster than Jesse Owens. It’s like nothing can stop me. That is, until a thick ribbon of smoke whips up around me, making it hard to breathe. I stall for a minute before deciding to drop down to the ground. Hidden between the cornstalks, I make my way to the place the smoke is coming from.

  I bet I look like one of those soldiers out on the front line! I beam, crawling on my knees. Ting! I wriggle further. Ting! Looking over my shoulder, I frown at the shovel chiming each time it hits the dirt. Some soldier!

  When a piercing screech rips through the field, I poke my head up over the rows of corn. But the smoke is like a wall. What’s going on? Struggling for air, I’m forced to duck back down. Falling flat on my belly, I try to slink through the dirt. But it’s like I’m stuck. I try again, but my legs won’t budge! As the smoke closes in around me, I cover my face with my arms and curl into a ball.

  The sound stops as abruptly as it started. It takes me a long while before I build up the courage to uncoil myself and look around. The smoke around me has almost completely dissipated, making it easy to see the tire flattening a cornstalk just to my right. A tire belonging to one of those brand-new Buick’s that, up until today, I’ve only seen in newspaper ads. If I’m not mistaken, it’s the property of a certain Monty Bristol.

  Beside the Buick is a second car, and I bet you’ve already guessed: a 1940 Ford Deluxe. I roll over to where the cars sit and inspect the older of the two. It’s Dad’s, alright. It’s got a dint in the bumper from when I rode my bike into it last month.

  What in the name are they doing here?

  The sweat on my brow turns cold.

  Part of me is relieved I won’t have to go face to face with the aliens all on my own. The other part of me is more scared than before. You think little green men are terrifying? You’ve never seen Dad when he’s cross!

  Peering down, I swallow hard. My saddle shoes are all scuffed up. My trousers and shirt are quite dirty, too. I’m going to have to come up with one heck of a line or I’m in for a real walloping!

  As the smoke in the distance dissipates, I can advance without choking. But my fear keeps me holding my breath. A huge metallic object is crashed into the hillock, leaving it sitting up slantwise. It makes me think of a big, shiny cake platter with a giant silver marble glued at the center.

  “Dad?”

  No answer.

  My heart is banging around in my chest like a pinball in a cage of flippers. And yet
I take a step closer. And another. Until I’m so close I could reach out and touch it. Which is precisely what I do.

  The surface is surprisingly soft and pliable. As I push my finger into it, the material stretches and indents. When I remove my finger, it bounces back into its original shape. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Except for one thing. Skin.

  “Dad? Are you in there?”

  Still no answer.

  The whole scene is eerily silent. Not even the slightest whoosh of wind whistles through the high grass in the guise of a response. If it weren’t for the two parked cars, I’d think I was all alone. It reminds me of that comic book Willy was telling me about. The one where the hero gets caught in another dimension. I swallow hard. He never did tell me the end of the story.

  “That’s poppycock, Robbie, and you know it,” I conjure up my best Dad impression. “There’s no such thing as other dimensions.” I continue imitating my father’s voice. Partly to reassure myself. Partly to break the silence.

  There’s a logical explanation to all this, I can imagine him saying. And even if there isn’t, Dad’ll know how to make things better. He knows how to fix anything.

  Opting for the spanking of a lifetime over spending another minute all by my lonesome, I turn my attention back to the big metal disc. But I can’t even find the door to the thing. It must be on the other side. Keeping my eyes pinned to its seamless exterior, I circle the craft, ending up right where I started. But there’s no entranceway in sight. Unless… My breathing quickens. Unless it’s below.

  The thought of crawling under this monstrous thingamabob that’s got to weigh a zillion tons makes my head spin. Slumping down, I draw in a deep breath before poking my head apprehensively beneath it. I recoil fast. Whew! I let out a long sigh of relief. The doorway isn’t there.

  Still, there’s got to be a way in. I retrace my steps back to where I started, letting my fingers run along the soft shell. It’s cold to the touch, but as I leave my hand on it longer, it warms substantially.