I rested against the fender of the Corvette, my arms crossed over my chest, and watched all the boat-like, flashy cars cruise by. I marveled at the hairstyles.
On the thinly veiled surface, the Sixties didn’t seem too different from Base Life. There was an obvious absence of personal electronics and digital technology, but I liked the mechanical knobs on the ‘Vette, the real handed clock towers across town, and the way music sounded floating through tinny speakers. I was fascinated by the bits of conversation I overheard as people walked by, of bomb shelters and the Russians, and how JFK was the hippest Catholic ever. It all seemed so quaint and innocent, but it was a lie. Scratch an inch beneath the surface and you’d find the ugly things they swept under the rug. The segregation, the riots, the hate. All that hate covered up by fluffy hairdos and modest hemlines and bright orange lipstick.
It made me sick. And I wanted to go home.
I let myself enjoy one last cruise in the Corvette, winding through the country hills back toward Jim’s house. I sang along to When the Lion Sleeps Tonight and Only the Lonely and Will You Love Me Tomorrow. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d listened to the radio – I streamed all my music from the Internet back in Base Life. The jokes the Sixties DJs inserted between each song were so silly they were hilarious and made me miss commercial breaks. A little. And it made me want to take Claire’s advice and fix up an old car of my own.
Now that I knew how to drive.
A few miles away from the Mitchell estate, my hair-swept cruise through rolling farm fields came to an unexpected end. I pulled off onto the gravel shoulder as the ‘Vette sputtered and rolled to a stop. Glancing at the gas gauge, I saw the needle was well past E. If it had been any other issue, I probably could have gotten the car rolling again, but the thought of fueling up hadn’t even crossed my mind.
Talk about failing Driving 101.
Without a cell phone to call for help, I lay on the hood listening to the radio for almost an hour – shielding my eyes from the sun and letting it warm my skin – before I heard the distant rumble of a single vehicle. It was a dirty, rusty, mint-green Chevy truck with a huge chrome grill on the front. I hopped down when it slowed and pulled to the side of the road in front of me. It sputtered and wheezed, then sighed and settled on its tires.
The driver’s door squawked open, and a young guy with dark hair in nice-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt – sleeves rolled up like James Dean – climbed out. “Need some help?” He flashed me a charming grin as he approached, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag he pulled from his back pocket.
I nearly collapsed where I stood.
It was Blue.
CHAPTER 17
A GHOST
“What are you doing here?” The words tumbled out of my mouth, raspy and dry.
Blue stood before me, as sure and as bright as the sun. As real as the wind. As alive as my swift pulse. But it didn’t make sense. How could he be here? In 1961?
He nodded at the Corvette, still wiping his hands on the rag and answered my question literally. “You broke down. Thought I’d stop to lend a hand.”
He looked almost exactly the same, except he was a few inches taller, and the bridge of his nose was wider. His skin was tinged red from the sun. His hair was a bit longer, a bit shaggier, with the top sticking off to the right like he always ran his fingers through it that way. His eyes were just as shocking blue-green as before. The laugh lines around his eyes were mischievous. Teasing. His voice, kind and smooth, sent a shiver through me. I stepped toward him and lifted a hand to touch his face. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
He frowned and leaned away from my hand. “Do we know each other?”
I lowered my hand.
He didn’t recognize me. I looked completely different than I did in Chicago.
“It’s me, Sousa.”
He stuffed the rag in his back pocket with a slight shrug. “Doesn’t ring a bell, sorry.”
I couldn’t speak. My heart had seized. It was hooked on my ribs.
Maybe it wasn’t him. I mean, it couldn’t be, could it? He was just a lookalike. It had to be my guilty conscience playing cruel tricks. “Sorry. It’s just... You look like someone I used to know.”
“I do?” He popped the hood on the Corvette and leaned in to have a look. “What was his name?”
“Nick Piasecki.” I expected his head to pop up, for him to react to the name somehow.
He didn’t.
“Don’t know anyone by that name. Is it your carburetor, do you think? The carburetors on these new ‘Vettes can be testy.”
It took a moment before I processed his question. I was too caught up in the way his white T-shirt stretched over his shoulders. The way it had in his kitchen in Chicago. The shape of his back, his waist, his hips, even his butt – they were all the same. “Uh, no,” I said, swallowing. “Just ran out of gas.” The words fell like dust to the ground. They kicked up in the breeze and swirled away into the fields.
“Oh, well that’s no problem. I always keep a spare tank on my truck.”
I leaned against the ‘Vette, my arms crossed, watching him. How could this guy look so much like Blue? Maybe Nick was a distant relative, but this guy said the name didn’t ring a bell.
He came back to the ‘Vette, carrying a red metal gas tank with a nozzle. He stuck out his hand. “Jack Baker. It’s a pleasure.”
His hand even felt like Blue’s. It was rougher, but the shape, the size, everything matched. “God, even your fingernails are shaped the same,” I said, turning his hand over.
“As that guy you knew?”
I nodded.
“What happened to him?”
I slid my hand from his and re-crossed my arms. “He died.”
He pressed his lips together in a sincere frown. “I’m real sorry to hear that.”
I swallowed again and nodded. This guy wasn’t Blue. He was just his ghost, sent to haunt me the day after Halloween.
The ghost filled my tank, replaced the gas cap, then patted the trunk. “You’re all set.”
I finally managed a weak smile. “Thanks. Who knows how long I’d be here if you hadn’t come along?”
He hoisted the gas tank over his tailgate and set it in the bed of his truck. “You headed to the Mitchell place?”
I nodded. “Jim and I are going out. I mean, going steady.” I didn’t know why I told him that, I guess I just wanted to see how the words sounded on my tongue. I still couldn’t get over the fact that I would have chosen someone like Jim as my boyfriend. And maybe I wanted to see a reaction. Something to tell me Blue was in there somewhere. Inside that Jack Baker shell.
Jack’s chin tipped up. “Ah. Jim.” It was a loaded ah.
“You know him?”
“Eeyup.”
“He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”
Jack laughed. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
I shook my head, looking down at my shoes. “I don’t know what I see in him.”
“No? Well, I can come up with about a million guesses. Just off the top of my head.” He grinned, teasing me. Did he mean I was with Jim because he was rich? If that was true, it made me dislike my 1961 self even more.
Jack clapped a hand on his driver’s door handle. “I best be off. Maybe I’ll see you around, Sousa.”
My heart jumped when he said that. He sounded just like Blue. He gave me a smile – Blue’s smile, a stolen smile – then climbed into his truck.
The thief.
I watched him drive off, my heart a tangle of confusion, until he was a speck of mint-green rust on the horizon. My skin felt cold and foreign. My limbs were hollow. My chest was thick. Knotted.