Emit Page 4

  The rippling floor is hypnotizing. It carries my thoughts down the path on which legends are written. All I have to do is agree to the mission. A mission created just for me, where I could be the hero.

  As I pick up the tablet, my mind wraps warmly around the idea of a place where I’d be the one to call the shots. Where P-38’s would replace dirty old shovels and I’d make the Willy Sawyers of the world dig the graves. I imagine all the Nazis I’d eliminate, and the little green men I’d vaporize. And then…

  And then…I let out a long sigh. Who am I kidding?

  When that loud screech left a line of smoke rising from behind the window pane, I wasn’t brave. All I did was run and hide.

  As my head hangs down, my gaze falls dejectedly onto the tablet’s screen. The picture only seals the deal. It isn’t a gallant young knight looking back at me. It’s just some kid with a stupid old shovel. I’ve never been a hero. And I never will be.

  I leave the metallic slate to vanish beneath the undulating waves before placing my hand between the red knobs. When the door appears before me, I draw in a long, deep breath. My decision has been made. Not all roads are meant to be traveled. Not all people are meant to be heroes.

  Turning my back on the tablet and the secrets it holds, I gaze out into the world I’ve always known.

  Sitting down on the doorsill, I lower myself gingerly to the ground. The shovel is poking out from a mound of debris. Picking it up, I sling it over my back. Without so much as a glance behind, I dart through the field toward the highway. Maybe the faster I run, the faster I’ll be able to forget.

  But the memories cling on to me as closely as the turquoise sky hangs onto the rising canyons. I sprint as if trying to outpace the blazing sun, hanging over me like a spotlight, eager to reveal the truth: Robbie Flynn is a coward. Ashamed, I divert my eyes, looking down and focusing on the steady rhythm of my feet as they hit the asphalt.

  The hours dwindle on. My achy legs grow sluggish and my tempo slows to a crawl. And yet, the canyons spread on deep into the horizon. It looks like I haven’t advanced at all.

  This can’t be right, I spin around, spying my surroundings. I should be coming up to Gallinas Peak by now. But the peak is nowhere around.

  Is it possible that I took the 247 in the wrong direction? I wonder, but quickly disregard the idea. I’m sure I hung a left when I hit the dusty road.

  But that doesn’t change the fact that nothing appears as it should. Along with the confused landscape, another thing strikes me as odd: after all these miles, I haven’t seen a single car! It’s like the whole world’s been abandoned.

  An eerie feeling washes over me as I limp down the empty road offering only tumbleweeds for companions. My toes are sore with blisters and I’m so thirsty I could drink an armored heifer, which says a lot because I hate canned milk!

  When I reach the intersection with its shield-shaped sign, I do a double take. That explains why nothing looks right! But how on Earth did I end up on Route 66 without passing straight through Corona?

  But as soon as I turn the corner, all my doubts melt away. Not far down sits a group of houses! Pushing my achy feet out of my mind, I sprint as fast as my legs will carry me.

  The neighborhood looks like mine, only everything is backward. I guess that makes sense. I’m coming from the wrong direction. I stop before a narrow two-story house with painted red shutters. What happened to the big 61? I muse, racing up the front steps.

  “Dad! I’m home!” But when I pull on the handle, the door doesn’t budge. That’s real strange because Dad never locks up. “No need for bolts or keys. We couldn’t be in a safer town than Corona,” he always says.

  I hammer at the front door. No answer. The inside of my mouth feels as blistered as the outside of my feet. I’ll ask for something to drink over at Willy’s house, crossing the shrubby lawn and bounding up the front steps. But nobody’s there, either.

  I’ve got to get something to drink, and fast! If not, I might end up like one of those statues from Grandmom’s stories that turn to dust!

  Wait! I know! I’ll go to the corner market. But when I reach into my pockets, the coins are gone. Could they have fallen out with all my sprinting?

  Too bad, I shrug. I’ll have to just ask Jake to put it on the tab.

  I hurry through the vacant streets leading to the corner store. When I push open the heavy glass door, it’s just as empty. The store is brightly lit, but nobody’s in sight. “Hello? Jake?”

  I skip past the newspaper stacks and to the wooden refrigerator. I can’t believe my eyes! Jake must have gotten a shipment in since the day before yesterday! There are so many kinds of pop that I’m not sure which one to choose. I search through the rainbow lines of bottles and finally decide on a purple one. Turning the bottle face-front, I eye the label. Huckleberry. I don’t even need to sound it out! It’s as if the word jumps straight off the bottle and into my brain! Maybe because of the picture on the sticker?

  But the same goes for the penny candy display. As my gaze slides over the jars jammed with sweets, the words on their labels jolt into my mind. Licorice wheels. Candy cigarettes. Bubble gum cigars. I salivate.

  Dad hardly lets me have candy, but I think that after the birthday shovel affair along with the unsuccessful pie incident, he’ll throw me a bone.

  Snatching one of the little bags, I fill it to my heart’s delight. Honey bites. Gumballs. Taffy bars and chocolate mints. I stop at the candy buttons. Reaching into the jar, I rip a sheet and stuff the yellow and pink dotted page into my bag. Knowing what I do about candy buttons, eating a blue one just wouldn’t feel right.

  The storeroom smells sweet and savory from the boxes of candy and cake, and as I wait for Jake to come out of the back room, my stomach takes to growling loudly. The bin of biscuits at the edge of the counter catches my eye. Since nobody’s around, I guess it wouldn’t do any harm for me to taste one. To see if I’d be interested in buying, of course. After examining my whereabouts, I pop a broken biscuit into my mouth and chomp ravenously.

  But instead of calming my hungry belly, the cookie only makes it snarl louder. Broken items don’t count, I justify, shooting a nervous glance at the back-room door before swiping a handful from the bin.

  When a loud jingling fractures the silence, I nearly jump out of my saddle shoes. Heart throbbing, I force the remaining crumbs down my throat. My cheeks are painted red with guilt.

  Spinning around, my pulse calms. It isn’t Jake showing up in time to see me pilfering his biscuits, but a pair of gum-chomping teenagers bursting in off the street.

  I let out a sigh of relief and kick the pile of crumbs beneath the counter. Just as I finish hiding the evidence, the girl cries out, “I don’t believe you one bit, Arty McComwell!”

  The boy who looks to be more in need of a good trip to the barber shop than a bottle of pop strokes his greasy mane and eyes the stack of newspapers. “Aha!” he exclaims, grabbing a copy of the Daily Miner. “See! It’s right here, Dolly!”

  As she twirls around to look, her pink skirt rises around her thighs. When it settles back down again, I see it’s embroidered with a black and white dog. “Well I’ll be! USSR Tests Hydrogen Bomb!”

  “I told you this was bad news!”

  With all the crying out, I don’t notice a woman appear from the doorway tucked behind the counter. “You buying that paper?” she addresses the teens stringently. Without a word, the boy with the oily hair folds the large, flimsy sheet haphazardly and replaces it on the top of the pile.

  “If you’re not planning on buying anything, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Arty saunters over to the refrigerator, yanks out a couple of colas, and slams them onto the coun
ter. Then he scrounges around in his pocket and pulls out a few coins. “Don’t have a cow,” he grumbles before stuffing back out the door.

  The woman collects the money, muttering something under her breath and then turns to me. This time, her voice is gentler. “Can I help you?”

  “Uh…I’m looking for the shopkeeper.

  “Oh,” she hesitates, “he’s not here right now. What’d you need?”

  “It’s just,” I stammer, “I need to talk to him.”

  “Well, he’s not here right now. He had something important to tend to so I’m filling in.” I must be glaring at her something awful because she suddenly adds, “I’m his wife.”

  Lies! I’ve known Jake since I was born. Maybe even before that! And he’s never had a wife!

  But when she adds, “You sure I can’t help you?” with that real pretty smile of hers, I let down my guard.

  “Yes please, Ma’am. That’s real kind of you. You see, I got locked out of my house, and I don’t have any money. But my dad’s got a tab here and I was wondering…”

  “Of course,” she smiles, wrapping up my candy and throwing a few biscuits on top. “Free of charge.” I blush significantly. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “It’s Robbie. Robbie Flynn.”

  “Flynn, you say?”

  I crack open the soda pop and take a big chug-a-lug. “Mmmhmm.”

  “Robbie?”

  “Yes?”

  “In that you’re locked out of your house, why don’t you stay here for a while. We have a table in the corner you can sit down at to eat if you’d like.”

  The string of bells on the door handle clinks noisily, but I’m so engrossed in my snack that I don’t pay any mind. It’s only after the bag of penny candy has disappeared and I’m licking the last buttery crumbs from my fingers that I look up.

  A police officer is standing at the entranceway and talking with the store woman in hushed tones. When they notice me looking, they begin stage whispering.

  “Oh hello, Officer Miller. What brings you into the shop today?”

  “Hi there, Miss Marion. I was passing through and thought I’d buy me a bottle of pop. Just wouldn’t know which kind to choose.”

  Then, as if he’s just noticed me, the cop approaches. “Why hello there, kiddo. You new in town?”

  I shake my head.

  “That’s strange. I thought I knew all the kiddies ‘round these parts.”

  Apparently not. I suck at my straw.

  “What kind of pop do you have there?”

  “Huckleberry.”

  “Any good?”

  I nod again.

  “Miss Marion mentioned your name’s Robbie Flynn. Is that true?”

  I’m beginning to wonder what’s up with the twenty-one questions. Adverting my eyes, I nod stubbornly.

  “Is that so?” He smirks. “Well, then, Robbie Flynn. How’d you like to take a ride in a black-and-white?”

  I hope this doesn’t have something to do with the stolen biscuits. I mean, they were broken after all. I’d think of making a getaway, but I’m outnumbered. I’ll have to use my brain rather than my brawn if I want to get out of this situation. “What am I being taken in for?” I call his bluff.

  He lets out a harsh, brassy laugh. “I’m not taking you in to jail, little guy. Just into the station so we can talk.”

  “Why?” I ask. “Can’t we talk here?”

  He fiddles with his collar. “No can do.” I mustn’t look too convinced, because he adds, “It’s procedure. We take lock-outs real seriously. Did you know a little boy went missing in Kingman just last week? Wouldn’t want the same thing to happen again.”

  His smile feels like slime over my skin. But I realize I don’t have much of a choice. I agree to go, with one stipulation. “I’ll come, but only if I can speak with the sheriff.”

  “No problemo.” Officer Miller leads me out of the corner store and over to the police car. It’s funny seeing one up close. Here, I’d always thought they were just like Dad’s Ford Deluxe, only with a white panel in the center. Turns out they’re not the same at all. In fact, if the word Police wasn’t stamped onto the door, I’d have never recognized it as a black and white. The whole car looks distorted, like a big black taffy that melted in the sun.

  “Eck-hem.” The sound of the policeman clearing his throat jerks me from my daydream. “If we could get a move on, it’d be much appreciated.”

  Officer Miller’s got one of those no-nonsense faces. I manage to mutter a stifled apology and reach for the handle.

  “Eck-hem.” This time, he’s motioning to the front door. Turns out, he isn’t so hard after all. He doesn’t make me sit in the back seat and even lets me push the button to turn on the siren. Guess it’s like Grandmom always said: you can’t judge a book by its cover.

  As I peer out into the unending line of vast empty desert, my eyes grow heavy. When I open them again, the sun is already dipping down below Gallinas Peak and we’re pulling up to the police station.

  Rubbing the sand from my eyes, I follow Officer Miller into the waiting room. “The sheriff is expecting you,” he says, showing me to a seat and disappearing back out into the parking lot.

  The tick-tock of the old wall clock makes me nervous. I glance swiftly at the front door, wondering what would happen if I made a break for it. But I’m forced to renounce the idea. This place is secured like an armored truck. When the solid oak door finally swings open, a sandy-haired man emerges.

  “Sheriff Johnson?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, little guy. Sheriff Johnson retired last year. My name’s Sheriff O’Ryan.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “But my dad came to see Sheriff Johnson last night.”

  “About your dad…” As voice trails off, the tick-tock grows louder. “You see, Robbie. Your dad’s no longer here.”

  “Well, of course Dad’s not here! He wouldn’t have stayed overnight!”

  O’Ryan frowns. “That’s not quite what I’m trying to say.” He keeps on talking, but all I can hear are those thunderous clock-strikes slicing his story to smithereens.

  The sheriff lays one of his big fleshy hands on my shoulder, just like Dad did on that moonless night when he showed up on the doorstep for the first time. I suddenly don’t feel so scared. “I’ve got an idea,” he says. “Why don’t you come home with me tonight? You can stay in the guest room and I can try to get a hold of Pat Johnson in the morning.”

  After locking up the office, Sheriff O’Ryan shows me to a new black and white. It’s as stretched out as the other one, but this one’s got a pointy star on the side.

  How lucky can a kid be? I wonder, hopping onto the front bench. I bet none of my classmates can say they got to ride in two police cars on the same day!

  And if I think that’s impressive, I’m in for a real treat. The sheriff’s house is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It’s got all these paper lanterns burning, lighting it up like Christmas. On the inside, everything is shiny and white. I wonder if I haven’t snuck straight into heaven.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  I nod eagerly and follow the sheriff into the kitchen where he introduces me to Mrs. O’Ryan and their daughter, Debbie. When the two adults withdraw into the next room, Debbie pours me a tall, cold glass of cola.

  “Golly! You must have real big checker pieces!” I say, inspecting the black and white floor.

  I can feel my cheeks smolder as Debbie giggles before going back to munching the flat shiny pebbles she’s got in a bowl. “You want some?”

  My
stomach burbles. “Please!”

  Taking a box from the lower cupboard, she pours me some. “Milk?”

  But I’m focused on the box. The picture is of a white-faced man with a bulbous red nose and an exaggerated black mouth that starts in an “o” and extends all the way to his ears. I can’t tell if he’s happy or sad beneath all that paint.

  “Robbie?”

  The sound of my name breaks me from my daydream. “Sorry, I was just looking at that strange clown.”

  “Who, Cliffy?”

  “Huh? Is that his name?”

  “You don’t know who Cliffy the Clown is?”

  I shake my head.

  “He’s the greatest clown of all time! You know, with Nicky and Scampy?” When I remain expressionless, she continues. “They’re from the Super Circus! It’s a program on the ABC Network on Sundays at five! Don’t you have a television set at your house?”

  I do. But I’ve never seen this clown before. Plus, I specifically remember the Arthur Godfrey show is on Sunday at five.

  “Well, either way, he’s radioactive!”

  “Is it dangerous to eat his cereal, then?”

  Debbie erupts into laughter. “Why, I meant to say he’s popular, is all. But anyway,” she motions to the glass bottle, “did you want some milk?”

  When I nod, she splashes some in my bowl. My first spoonful catches me off-guard. This cereal tastes like it’s been dipped in pure liquid sugar!

  “You want to come watch some TV with me?”

  I nod eagerly. Dad never lets me watch TV while I eat.

  Debbie spins the knobs until she finds a station, but when she does I can’t trust what I’m seeing. It’s absolutely miraculous. “Gosh! How’d you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Why, get the colors in there!” The picture beaming from the box is as vibrant as a rainbow.

  “You don’t have a color screen at your house?” she giggles, sliding her fingernail beneath the thin plastic sheet stuck to the TV.