Manse Creek with a shovel borrowed from the carriage house and found the place where I was supposed to bury the box. Maybe when Luka found it in 1987, she could look up my parents and tell them. Not that they’d believe her. Hi, remember your son that disappeared ten years ago? He and I used to time travel through a mirror in your old house. He’s not dead, but he’s in his forties or fifties by now.
I lay the box in its hole next to a midsized tree that would be a gnarled giant in thirty years, and looked at it for a long time before covering it up.
It was only when I had patted down the loose dirt on top that I realized I wasn’t finished digging yet. It’s funny when I look back at this now, just a year later, and think about all the things I didn’t realize then, the questions I didn’t ask. Why didn’t I find out more about Lilly? Why didn’t I try to figure out how Peggy was going to disappear, or how a newspaper from 1947 was going to end up wrapping a dead baby that might be from many years before? Why didn’t I wonder how Luka’s initials were already carved into a piece of wood that I found not long after arriving in this time?
That last one I did finally start wondering about. Took me long enough.
The initials. She had carved them. We saw them when we dug the tabletop up in 1977. I saw them again in this year. So she had been back further.
Trembling with anticipation, I walked to where I remembered her July box was supposed to be, next to a large, half-buried rock, and without another moment’s thought, began to dig with mad energy. It was impossible that the box would be there. Wasn’t it? But I knew it was there in 1977, which meant she had buried it further in the past than my home time. Surely that meant that sooner or later, sometime before the year was over, she was going to travel again. And if she was traveling back, why stop at 1967? Why not go back far enough that I could actually use whatever it was she had to tell me?
“Hi.”
Startled, I almost dropped the shovel.
A tall, slim man in neat clothing had climbed up from the creek bed. I didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t saying much. The area was a lot less populated than it would be in my time, and I had tried to avoid the few farmhands and landowners I saw. Kingston Road wasn’t far, and there were a lot more houses and people there, but in the forties Manse Valley had more cornfields than commuters.
“I, ah … ” The man gestured behind him. “I thought I’d take a walk. It’s nice around here. Not a lot of people.” He looked down at the hole I had been digging. “Treasure hunt?” His clothes didn’t look like what you’d wear if you were going to take a walk along a creek. White shirt, pressed grey suit, jacket slung across his arm, yellow tie, and a fedora.
“Kind of a time capsule,” I said, hoping they had such things back in the forties.
He grinned. “Oh, like at the World’s Fair? That’s keen. When did you bury it?”
“A couple of years ago.” I dug my shovel into the dirt again. Its weight felt reassuring.
“Oh, yeah? Isn’t it a little early to dig it up? Don’t you want to wait a few years?” He held up his jacket and took out a cigarette case and a lighter.
I continued digging, but kept my eyes on him. What was he doing here? “We’re moving soon,” I said. “My dad bought a house in the city. I don’t want to leave it here.”
The thin man nodded. Did I know him? He was clean shaven. Younger than my parents. “Sure. So you live around here?”
“Just past those trees,” I said. “You?”
“Used to. Moved away for a while. War, you know?”
My shovel struck the top of Luka’s box. The man must have heard the sound or read my expression. “Well, there’s your time capsule. What’s inside? Photographs? School essays?”
“A letter,” I said.
He lit his cigarette and smiled. “Well, don’t let me stop you. Go ahead.”
Watchfully, I edged around the shape of the box, then reached in and struggled it out. The thin man smoked his cigarette and leaned against a tree, looking off at the creek. “Place hasn’t changed,” he said. “Same old neighbors. Mostly. Not sure if I remember your family, though. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” I said. He seemed taken aback. It was useful to be a couple of generations ahead of everyone on smart-ass movie lines. I relented as I stood up with the dirt-covered box. “Bond. James Bond.” Something clattered to one end of the box.
The man smiled. “Beckett,” he said, and stepped forward, holding out his hand. He must have seen my eyes go wide, because he stopped, hand outstretched. “Sounds like more than a letter. Your name’s not familiar. What about mine?” He seemed more sure of himself now than when he had first climbed up from the creek bed.
I gulped, trying to think fast. “Sure. Beckett. My grandpa knew a Clive, but he died in the war.”
The thin man nodded, let his hand drop. “Aren’t you going to look? At the box.”
I had put it protectively under my arm. “I guess. I better head back home. I told my dad I was just coming for a few minutes. He’ll come out to find me if I don’t.”
“Aw, come on. Satisfy an old soldier’s curiosity. Maybe that box ain’t even yours.”
He was between me and the creek. Down one side, across, then up the other? A mad dash through the woods? Could I even get past him, much less to the carriage house?
But why was I worried about him?
“Okay,” I said. One-handed, I thrust the shovel into the ground in front of me, and set about opening the box. The hinges, which I had seen brand new only a few weeks ago, were stiff with rust and dirt, and the wood was warped, but I managed to wrench it open without spilling the contents: a large heavy coin, a folded piece of paper, and an envelope addressed to me.
“Hey, a coin,” said the man, who had taken the opportunity to step closer. I took a half step back, keeping the shovel between us. “Whoa, take it easy,” he said. “I’m just—hey, you know what that is?” His eyes narrowed. “That’s a Dead Man’s Penny. What’s a kid doing with one of those?”
He didn’t pass the temporary barrier of the shovel. I tried to keep my hand from trembling as I unfolded the paper. Despite the tension of the moment, I felt a twinge of annoyance at Luka when I realized how little she had written. All night I had stayed up finishing mine. But the mood went away as soon as I saw it actually was hers. Her handwriting. Her voice, after all this time. Talking to me. I tried to keep my wits about me, and held the paper high enough to watch the thin man as I read.
“Do you even know what that is?” said the man. “A Dead Man’s Penny? It’s funny, I have one. Always carry it.” His gaze never left mine as he reached into his pocket and brought out a newer coin. I could see why he called it a penny. It was copper, but larger than any coin. I looked down at the one in the box. A woman stood, a helmet on her head, holding out a wreath. A lion at her feet faced off to the right as did she. Below her hand, a name had been engraved.
Clive Beckett.
“That’s funny,” said the thin man. He rubbed his fingers on the coin. “Tingly. Like electricity shooting through it.”
I didn’t touch the coin. Fingers still trembling, I put Luka’s letter back in the box, and withdrew the
