Back at the hotel, Goldie got some fresh gauze from the first aid kit behind the front counter, then called her publisher, Owen Mitchell, to report on her activities thus far. During the brief conversation, she also learned a couple of new things about the Goldie Maraschino of 1942 and her current assignment. She was informed that Charles Banyan had purchased her an open-ended plane ticket and had invited her to remain in Sparkledove right through the Christmas holiday. But nobody realistically expected her to do this. Mitchell figured she’d have plenty to write about by mid-December. She also learned from her boss that she’d had similar assignments for December features in previous years because she was unattached and had no one waiting for her in Columbus. This particular piece of information struck her as depressing. But she couldn’t argue about the person she’d been in the past. She could only do something about the person she was now.
She returned to her room, discovered her laundered clothes, and changed into nice slacks and a blouse. After freshening up in the bathroom and putting the new gauze on her hand, she went back to her room and sat at her desk for a long time, writing questions to herself using the pad and pencil she’d retrieved from her purse. The questions were self-analytical, like: “Why 1942?” “Why Sparkledove?” “Am I dead?” “Am I supposed to write a story?” “Am I supposed to accomplish something?” “If I do, can I return to my own time?” “What about the man on the bridge?” “No splash.” “No body.” It was all very confusing.
At about 7:15 p.m., she went downstairs for dinner: a Coke and a salad. It was during this light meal that she realized the impetus of her being in Sparkledove wasn’t because she’d been struck by a car in New York; it was the mayor, Charles Banyan, who had reached out to Owen Mitchell and was paying her expenses.I need to get to know him better,she decided.See what makes him tick.But first, I need to go back to that covered bridge.
After dinner, she returned to her room and put on her new jacket, hat, and gloves from Miller’s General Store, then went back downstairs and borrowed a flashlight from the registration counter. Leaving the hotel, she walked to the covered bridge, hoping to arrive about the same time she had when she first saw the man. She didn’t know what to expect, but she had a theory. She believed the man she’d seen jump off the bridge was an apparition. The notion was odd because her entire existence in Sparkledove could be an apparition. But she was basing this theory on what she didn’t hear or see. She didn’t hear the man’s approaching footsteps on the bridge. She didn’t hear a splash when his body hit the water or see a disturbance in the water. And she didn’t find a body. Furthermore, the man didn’t even acknowledge her. Nobody in town had said anything about someone jumping off the bridge. Not Maddie, Peter Banyan, the folks she’d met at Miller’s—no one. Being a small town, she figured people would gossip about everything. Especially someone’s husband, boyfriend, or son who had come home soaking wet in the dead of winter. But none of that happened. So, it couldn’t have been real, right? At least, that’s what she was thinking.
It was snowing lightly by the time she reached the bridge. Snow wasn’t sticking to the ground yet, but the cold air smelled like it could change at any moment. Everything was still and quiet as it had been the night before Thanksgiving. Goldie walked to the middle of the bridge, her footsteps echoing on the plank wood floor, and looked out at the picturesque view as she had done before. The view from the open-air window wasn’t as clear as it had been two nights earlier. She looked down at the quiet, slow-moving river, then walked to the other side of the bridge and looked at the view from the upriver direction where the river turned toward her. The view wasn’t as pretty as the downriver direction, but it was still nice.
She stood in the middle of the bridge, looking out one window, then the other, for nearly two minutes. Then, she walked down to its other end, where the dirt road turned left and went up a slight incline into some woods. Now having a flashlight in hand, she decided to walk up the road and into the woods. She went about a hundred yards up the incline until she came to a six-foot-high wire fence and gate with a sign that said: “No Trespassing by order of the Sparkledove Sheriff’s Department.” The wire gate was held shut by a chain and padlock, but there was enough length on the chain that a person could squeeze through if they really tried. Goldie turned her light one way along the fence, then the other. It stretched in both directions beyond the beam of her light and went off into the dark woods. It wasn’t hurricane fencing, but it was still a crisscross pattern of heavy-gauge wire that a construction company might use.
While all sorts of reasons for the fence came into her mind, her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the nearby groan of an animal. Being from the city, she wasn’t quite sure if it was a groan, a growl, or a howl, but it didn’t sound friendly. A couple of seconds later, she heard something scurrying through the underbrush coming toward her.
Deciding to make a hasty exit, Goldie turned and ran back down the dirt road. As she did, she used her flashlight and looked behind her, expecting to see anything from a bear to Sasquatch pursuing. But she saw nothing. She was relieved when she saw the lit interior of the covered bridge, and she ran back onto the relative safety of its wooden planks when she abruptly stopped. She stopped because the man with the high forehead she’d seen two nights earlier was once again on the bridge. He was wearing the exact same clothing: a lightweight red plaid jacket, blue slacks, and brown lace-up boots. He stood looking out at the downriver viewing window and ignoring Goldie, just as he had done before.
“Hey, you!”she yelled.“Mister!”
Not reacting to her call, the man stepped up onto the wooden windowsill and ducked his head to clear the height from the top of the window. Goldie bolted after him as he held onto the inside edges of the window with his fingertips and leaned his body out over the river. She extended a hand to grab the back of his jacket, but just missed it as he fell off the bridge. This time, however, she was close enough that when she got to the window, she should’ve seen his body hit the water. But it didn’t happen. Just a second after the man fell, Goldie was at the window. She peered down and saw nothing.
She clicked on her flashlight and scanned the water. It was calm and moving as slowly as before. Then she looked down the bridge toward the dirt road. There was no evidence of an animal chasing her.
“Damnit!”she cried, slamming a gloved hand against the side of the bridge.
She stuck her head out the window and looked down at the water.
“Who are you?”she demanded.“What does this mean?”
Nine
MARTHA EGGLESTON
The following morning, a little after 10:00 a.m., Goldie walked into Clara’s Gifts. She was wearing slacks and walking shoes from her suitcase, and her new jacket and gloves from Miller’s. “Tangerine” by Jimmy Dorsey was playing on the Philco radio, and the place was now heavily decorated for Christmas. Like the first time she had entered the store, the old wooden floor squeaked, announcing her arrival, and the place smelled wonderful due to the fresh pine wreaths and the open jar of cinnamon sticks on the counter.
“Oh, hey, honey!” Clara called. She was leaning casually on one of her counters and looking at theDenver Post.Her mostly white hair was hanging loose today, and she wore an attractive blouse and pants outfit. Except for herself, Goldie noticed that Clara was the only other woman in Sparkledove she’d seen wear pants.
“Morning, Clara,” Goldie smiled.
“That’s sure a pretty tree you, Peter, and the McCaw boys got yesterday. It’s maybe going to be our best one ever.”
“Thanks. I enjoyed goin’ with them. It was fun.”
The older woman gestured to the paper on the counter before her. “Speaking of brothers, I was just reading about those Sullivan boys who died a couple of weeks back. Terrible tragedy.”
“Sullivan boys?” Goldie asked.
“The five brothers who went down on the Juneau during the Battle of Guadalcanal.” She shook her head. “Their poor mother… all her babies gone at once.”
“Yeah,” Goldie nodded, remembering the Steven Spielberg filmSaving Private Ryanand wondering if the Sullivan brothers were the inspiration for the script. “Very sad.”
“And the others, too,” Clara added.
“Others?”
“Yes. Several other sets of brothers died when the Juneau sank.”
“Rrright,” Goldie said, not knowing this. “Terrible.”
Clara looked at her visitor for a moment, realizing she was unfamiliar with these events. She noted it, then let it pass, remembering she must’ve come in for a reason.
