Time Drifters

Images started to appear and I thought I’d be seeing the man in the car, but instead, I could tell that I was in a building… a familiar one. I knew the surroundings but none of it made sense. In slow motion I could see Mr. Danby, raising his arm, shielding himself from a bright light. And next to him, I saw… me. I was standing on the steps into the study, looking scared.

As though I’d been yanked by a rope tied to a racecar, I was suddenly hurtling forward. It seemed like my face was pushed up against the glass of a kaleidoscope while colors and patterns were smearing past me so fast I couldn’t make out anything distinct.

I was waiting for another jolt when I realized that I was kneeling, looking at the whitewashed boards of a shed. I hadn’t felt myself landing.

There was dry dirt with bits of broken pavement. I was in a kind of large pothole in a very short road, an alley way flanked by solid wood garage doors. A couple of the buildings towards the one paved road were painted pale yellow and light pink.

“Let me go! What are ya’ doing?!”

I heard the kid’s voice and turned to face the other opening to the alley. The boy was about my age, squirming and struggling to get free while a taller young man practically carried him around the corner by the scruff of the neck.

The older of the two had a long and almost impossibly thin face. Japanese features. Short and spiky black hair. Dressed in a sport jacket and tie.

I felt exhausted and stupefied, and found myself just watching as the young kid with blond hair kicked his captor’s leg, attempting to escape. The teen dodged so the foot missed its target for a second round, and the pair kept approaching me.

I didn’t feel like I was present… more like I was watching from within a shield of invisibility. But when the teen finally released the boy and gave him a shove in my direction, he looked at me and nodded.

“What’s going on?” wailed the kid, turning back on his erstwhile attacker. He raised his leg to try for another kick but the teen was quicker and his legs were longer. Balancing on one leg, he flicked his free foot with lightning agility and gave the boy a quick jab to the chest, sending him tumbling backwards onto his butt right at my feet.

No sooner had the kid landed than a pale blue, egg-shaped orb began to enfold the entirety of the teen’s body, still poised in a one-legged karate posture. It happened so fast; from the glowing spark to the shimmer bubble, to the opaque mist.

And then he was gone, with practically no sound.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed the kid, repeating himself over and over as he crab walked backwards. I leaned forward to stop the inevitable collision, just as he decided to launch himself upward. His skull struck my forehead. Ouch!

He yelped in surprise and rolled over onto his knees, standing to face me in a flash.

“Hello,” I said, still wondering if any of this was real. Apparently it was from the throbbing of my head.

“No!” he said, turning to take off. I wanted to let him run, but I knew I shouldn’t.

Damage control. I had to go after him. My legs were slow to move, as though my blood had turned to molasses.

“Wait, it’s okay,” I said.

But the kid had already turned the corner. By the time I made it to the sidewalk, I saw that he was ahead of me by nearly half a block, headed for a beach. A massive pink building rose prominently to the right. I didn’t know if I could catch him although I had the benefit of the beach to stop him. And then it hit me. Who he reminded me of.

“Thomas!” I yelled. “Wait!”

He stopped and looked back at me over his shoulder.

“You know me?”

“Yeah,” I said, waving, glad I didn’t have to ask my legs to run.

“What’s happening?” Thomas asked.

“It’s okay,” I repeated. “We’re friends.” I had meant that we were fellow Drifters, as in “not enemies,” although I suddenly got a shiver from thinking of Thomas—the more grown up version. I found it hard to reconcile that person with this miniaturized model. It was really just the set of his eyes, the shape of his flared nostrils and the quirk in his lips that reminded me. Not much else. He was practically twitching with movement, looking everywhere except up at me.

“How do you know me?” he asked, as I got closer.

“You’re a Drifter,” I said, quietly. “We’ve done this before.”

He pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. He took a long look around, surveying, as though he was just arriving.

On the opposite sidewalk, there was a woman pushing a baby carriage and holding hands with her daughter. A large black and white taxicab with puffy-shaped fenders passed through the intersection and drove by.

“Oh my God,” he said again, his eyes widening. “Where are we?”

“I think this is Hawaii,” I said, watching to make sure he wasn’t going to trip out. “Where are you from?”

“I… I don’t…” he stammered.

“You don’t know? Is that it?” I asked. I didn’t want to ask him about dates. Not yet.

“I don’t know if I’m supposed to talk about that,” he said.

“Right,” I acknowledged. “We don’t talk about our Drift stations much, I don’t think. But you can tell me where it is… the city.”

“What’s the date?” he asked, absently, turning to rifle into the trashcan beside the telephone pole. He jumped and reached a newspaper. The masthead read; Honolulu Star-Bulletin. I craned my neck to see; December 6, 1941.

“It worked!” he said, suddenly excited. “Oh my God, it worked.”

“You can’t keep saying, ‘Oh my God,’” I warned in a hushed voice, seeing the mother across the street turn to look at us with a scowl. “It probably doesn’t fit the time period. Or the customs, taking the Lord’s name in vain and all.”

Thomas looked at me like I was nuts.

“They had those words,” he said defensively. “So, we’re supposed to be doing something. I mean to fix whatever and then get out of here.”

“Hold on,” I said. I was still amazed that nobody was freaking out on the streets. The paper could have been from today or another day since it was published. But because there was no panic and no evidence of war, this probably was the sixth, the day before. I’d just gone back in time and back again. And if there were two of us, then was that other Drifter in the alleyway the third? Had I totally missed the assignment? My head was spinning.

“Reading newspapers? What’s the younger generation comin’ to?” said a young woman in a long dress, walking towards us. She had big blond curls that bobbed at the side of her face while she walked. She was wearing lipstick, but the flush in her cheeks looked a bit more like natural tan than makeup.

“It was trash, honest,” I said.

“Most of ‘em are,” she said, smiling. “So what’ve we got, boys?” she added, snatching the paper from Thomas. We were both surprised. She was so casual about stepping into our space. She seemed to be enjoying the attention, but the smile began to fade.

“Oh, c’mon, really?” she asked, settling her knuckles into her hips.

“Really what?” I asked, worried about this crazy girl.

“I never!” she began, turning out to the street, “never, ever, ever have I ever worn a dress. Until today. This very day. And then you don’t ever blink an eye…”

She stopped, looking at me and then at Thomas.

“You have no idea who I am, do you?” she said, leaning forward. I shook my head. “I should’ve guessed it from the Tommy rays they must’a used on the likes of you to make you so little. Why, you look like a pair of salt and pepper shakers. And damn, Trinder. What the hell happened to you, besides?”

“See?” Thomas said, “She swears.”

“Only when I’m pissed off,” the young woman said, in a broad Western twang. “Which happens frequently when I’m asked to put on a dress. And more so when I finally give in because I was explicitly told to by one of you two. Doesn’t mean you can,” she added, pointing at Thomas. “Swear that is. Be my guest if you want the dress.”

“I think it’s his first Drift,” I said.

“Says the voice of maturity,” she snapped. “And I think he can talk. Can’tcha?” she prodded.

“Yeah, I can,” Thomas said.

“Fine,” she continued, “then where’re you from?”

“Raw… Rochester,” Thomas said. “Seneca Station.”

“And when?”

“I’m… I’m not…”

“He’s from June, 1975,” I blurted. The young woman and Thomas both looked perturbed. “He told me earlier. Just before you got here.”

I remembered Thomas telling me at the end of the Tarrytown Drift. “How else would you have known?” he’d said just before he told me the date he’d first Drifted.

“Trinder!” the woman barked. “If he doesn’t know how to hold a date in his head, then how are you gonna survive on a Drift when he has to remember your stats? In case there’s no Post?”

“Sorry.”

“Yes you are,” she said, reaching out and grabbing my arms for inspection. “You look like you’ve already been through a meat grinder. Were you scrappin’, or what? And, oh, Lord! You smell like a pig pasture.”

She’d just turned me around enough to see the smear on my hip and I guess the smell had stayed in the fabric.

“I shimmered in, and it was tomorrow already,” I said, trying to figure how best to say it. “There were planes. And then this car with these sailors…”

“What about the guy in the blue bubble?” Thomas asked, jumping in.

“Hold up a second,” she said.

“Who are you?” I asked. That got her attention. She shook her head and stood up to her full height, closing her eyes.

“Pardon my manners,” she said, reaching out her hand for a shake. “I’m Calico McGregor. But you can, and do, call me Cali. And, yes, I was named after the fabric. And, no, I haven’t worn it since the age of three when I was old enough to take off my own clothes, ‘cause I’d prefer to wear either pants or nothin’.”

With a firm handshake to both of us, she launched back into business, herding us forward down the sidewalk towards the intersection.

“But wait,” I protested, turning and pointing back to the alley. “Where’s the fifth?”

“There is none,” Calico said.

She did pause and listen, however, when I told her about the Drifter in the alley who had brought Thomas to me. Unable to contain himself, Thomas interrupted with his own explanation about how he’d arrived and then wandered out into the street. The teenager had appeared, he said, from the next street up the hill, running towards him and attacking him, dragging him back to the alley.

Even I could tell that something didn’t sound right. But when Calico asked him again, he repeated the same details.

She asked me to repeat how his shimmer looked, how crisp and fast and silent it seemed. She nodded and I think I understood where her mind was going.

“You mean that the guy was from…”

“I mean, Trinder,” Calico said quickly, “that I don’t know who he was, other than what you just described. And I know for a fact that it’s just the three of us, because that’s how it was listed on the Post.” She surveyed both of us again and muttered, “God help me.”

As we were talking, she’d been eyeing the palatial pink building across the street. It was six or seven stories high with broad, curved plaster cornices on every ledge of the roof; like a monstrous rose-colored hacienda topped with scalloped seashells. It obviously had a prime location, facing the beach. Just down the street to our right, there was a circular drive. I deduced from the elegant cars that had been pulling up and the clientele emerging that this was a very popular, luxury hotel.

“Let’s go and get you cleaned up,” she said as we crossed the street. I was headed for the driveway when she yanked the shoulder of my jacket.

“Not down there,” she scoffed. “Not having us thrown out of this place for lookin’ like riff raff. Happens to be where the stationery comes from, and I’m makin’ sure we take care of that lickety-split.”

She was gruff but not unkind; quite the opposite, honestly. I was so relieved not to be alone, I didn’t object when she stopped us at a linen truck parked by the side of the hotel and then shooed us into a side door and down a dim cement tunnel into the basement. We emerged into what appeared to be a laundry, bustling with Asian and Hawaiian workers. They were pressing, folding, stacking and pushing pristine, white fabric around as though they were elves at Santa’s workshop prepping snowy blankets to cover the countryside for Christmas Eve.

Calico pinned us in place with a point of her finger while she spoke with two wizened Chinese women. One of them approached me, making clucking noises with her tongue.

“Give pants,” she commanded impatiently. She wasn’t even an inch taller than me, but I had no doubt she’d stick my head into the steam press if I disobeyed. I looked around, wondering where to change.

“Asch,” she grunted, snatching a folded towel and unfurling it like a miniature matador. “Hold!” she said to Thomas, indicating he become the human clothes pegs for my shield. I was in the midst of removing my shoes and pants when the woman peeled my jacket off my body herself.

“Wash hands,” she said, pointing to a large bar of stinky, yellow soap on a utility sink beside us. She beetled away with most of my clothes, disappearing amongst billowing bed sheets and puffs of steam exhaling from coils and padded presses in the rows of machinery. It was humid like a greenhouse and smelled floral, too, except for the battling stench of bleach.

“When she’s done and you’re dressed, meet me outside at the carport,” Calico said.

“Where are you going?” Thomas asked.

“Upstairs,” she said, already on the move.

“What’s the assignment?” I asked, not wanting to see her leave us.

“To stay out of trouble,” she called back.

Thomas silently handed me the towel and looked around with grave suspicion. He began to poke into one of the canvas bins, peering under each folded sheet, until his hand received a smart smack from a passing worker. Other than that, it would have seemed that we were invisible, and standing in just my socks, briefs and shirt, I could think of no better time for this kind of super power.

Still, it was a bit disturbing that no one made allowances for the fact that we were living beings, since we had to dodge out of the way when they were passing by with carts and bins. Watching the repetitive actions in the laundry soon became mesmerizing and I wondered if everyone here had simply become lulled into hypnosis.

The teeny woman reappeared, bearing the miracle work of her cleaning talents. There was no evidence of dust, dirt, puke or smell – I checked. Plus I now had a crisp fold pressed into my pants. I thought they looked even better than when Mr. Danby had produced them… and that seemed so very, very long ago. I tried to grasp that it was actually a long time in the future, but I couldn’t get my head around it. I felt too fuzzy brained.

Before I could say a proper, “Thank you,” the woman was shooing Thomas and me back out the tunnel. We passed by a couple of musicians and stood up against the wall as a large woman with a soft face smiled at us and shuffled by, holding a dress over one arm. A piercing buzzer echoed in the corridor and another guy wearing a tux and carrying a trombone case called out to the lady who’d just passed us.

“Your fans are clamoring to get in, Clara,” he said, “Should we open the flood gates? Let loose the dog tags of war?”

“Bring on the boys,” said Clara, “Give ‘em a Big Island welcome, so long as they’re paying.”

The thin man laughed and we slipped past this commotion and silently rounded the corner.

Nearing the driveway, we saw two porters in proper uniforms stacking suitcases and a large trunk onto a metal bellman cart, as well as a costumed boy who was our age grabbing multiple round cases. I thought they looked like my Grandma Anderson’s hatboxes.

The arriving guests were already up the steps, crossing a sheltered patio area as they headed inside. A chauffeur, or maybe the hotel doorman, was about to remove the automobile. It must have been a Rolls Royce; it looked so grand and glorious, with graceful curves and majestic straight edges. It had a lengthy, gleaming hood and volumes of space for passengers. Even the spokes on the huge tires were clean.

“Whoa, I’d like to take that apart some time,” said Thomas. I gave him a questioning look and he added, “Just to see how it all works.”

“I think it works better when it’s still in one piece,” I said, disturbed at the idea of this magnificent machine lying in a heap of parts.

“Just something I do,” he said, casually.

“Is your Dad a mechanic?” I asked. He thought about it for a moment.

“No,” he said, looking absently at the ground. He then looked up at the porters disappearing through the front door and bounded up the steps.

“Cali told us to wait outside,” I said.

“I’m just lookin’,” he replied as he arrived at the double doors.

I followed and peered over his shoulder. There were steps down to the cavernous lobby. A huge red carpet covered most of the tile floor.

“Ach-hem,” came a deep voice from behind us. We turned to see a middle-aged man arriving at the top of the steps and a beautiful younger woman in a tight skirt and fur wrap almost directly behind us.

“Something interesting happening inside, boys?” the pretty lady asked with a smile.

“Yes Ma’am,” said Thomas. I was a bit stunned at how glamorous she looked.

“Do we get to share in the fun? Or is there a toll?” she purred. Her older escort frowned and we both grabbed a door and pulled hard to get it open.

“Thank you, boys,” she said, “So sweet.”

I hardly noticed the man’s hand, dangling in front of me until he shook it and I heard the change clinking.

“Oh! Thank you, sir,” I said.

“How come you got it?” Thomas asked pawing into my palm before the doors had even closed. “Seven cents! What a freaky cheapskate.”

I was just surprised to see the nickel and two pennies, only registering that it was money. I knew this was good. “I don’t know,” I said, “it may be enough for a stamp.”

“Stamp?” Thomas asked, incredulous. “How ‘bout a soda? A burger! Some ice cream?”

“It’s not an amusement park,” I said, annoyed.

“What’s your name again?” he asked.

“Liam Trinder.”

“Well, Liam Trinder, I never said it was,” he sneered. “Forgive me if I like to eat.”

Before I could speak, Thomas had jumped for the door handle. “Good day, and welcome to the Royal Hawaiian Hotel,” he said, greeting a young couple that I hadn’t even noticed. I jumped to the other door, but Thomas’ hand was already out, open palmed and ushering them inside. The man was in full military uniform and his date was pretty but a bit awkward and shy.

“Oh!” the officer said, looking at Thomas’ outstretched hand and expectant look.

“It’s okay,” I said, smiling at the young lady. But the soldier’s hand was already rifling into his pant pocket.

Another couple was approaching fast behind them and this second soldier called out to his buddy. Startled, the soldier jerked his hand and suddenly coins were spilling and rolling all over the carpeted foyer.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said, dropping to the ground and snatching up coins amidst slender ankles in stockings with high heels, and crisp cuffs over polished, black shoes. Thomas was on it immediately and the soldier squatted, fitfully plucking up change and a bone-covered pocketknife, along with a book of matches and some ticket stubs. I handed him all of the change I collected and looked at Thomas. Reluctantly, he held out everything he’d salvaged.

“That’s alright, just keep it,” said the soldier, now trying to catch up with the rest of his party.

“Thank you very much,” said Thomas, licking his lip and making certain the man had disappeared. He wheeled around and leaned down beside a large plant pot, picking up a silver flask.

“What’s that?” I asked, as he tucked it inside his jacket.

“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” he said, raising his head defiantly.

“There’s a lot you don’t know, “ I said, “and I think it’s gonna hurt more than just you.”

“Says you,” Thomas said, shoving me in the chest.

“Bug off,” I said, shoving back. He wasn’t even quite as big as me, and I was ticked off by the attitude. I was good at avoiding schoolyard scuffles, but I wasn’t going to get pushed around by someone who thought it was okay to steal things.

“What’s going on out here?” asked a young porter, pushing his way out of the hotel and shoving his gloved hand between us.

“Nothing,” Thomas said, still sneering at me.

“Are you boys staying with a guest?” the porter asked.

Thomas and I both answered at the same time, but he said, “Maybe” and I said, “No.”

“Well then, you need to scram,” he said, shooing us away from the foyer.

“Way to go,” Thomas said as we were skulking down the steps.

“Boys! Where’re ya’ going?” Calico asked, catching up with us.

“We got kicked out because of Liam Trinder,” Thomas said, mocking my name.

“’Cause of you stealing and shoving,” I shot back.

“It’s not stealing,” he said.

“Wait, hold on,” Calico said, halting us. I saw that she had paper and pen in hand and I felt badly, remembering what she said about it being important to send the Post from the hotel. She turned to Thomas.

“If you stole something, then we need to…”

“It’s just some change we got for things we’ll need,” Thomas said, pulling the change from his pocket and displaying it. “The postmistress said we’d have to be resourceful, so that’s all we were doing.”

“Not just that,” I protested.

“Hold up,” Calico said, cutting me off while she turned back to Thomas. “You know, or you should know you can’t tell me any names of the postmaster or postmistress of your station.”

“Why?” Thomas asked.

“Because we don’t do that,” Calico said. “Too dangerous and you’ll know more later.”

“When?” he asked.

“And I’m glad you got some money,” she continued, ignoring his other question, “because we need a twenty-cent stamp to get the Post from the Territories, here, over to the mainland. So, next, we have to see which one of you wrote the note. And so, we’re going to be good citizens and walk around to the patio on the far side of the hotel. And you’re not going to say anything or do anything unless I say so. At least until this Post is done. D’you both got that?”

We nodded and then dutifully followed Calico around the hotel, past the laundry entrance and towards the beach. I’d only been to Orlando and Sarasota, Florida, and the sea had never looked like this. In my set of coloring pencils, I had one called Azur but I knew I couldn’t use it to recreate how beautiful the water was here. The whole view along the sandy shore towards the rocky, mountainous point in the east was like a dreamy postcard. Even Thomas’ jaw was hung wide open.

If it looked unusual to Calico, she didn’t let on much. We kept moving and crossed the lawn beneath the shade of tall, lacey-leafed trees and some palms, then sat at a table near the edge of the patio. Calico pushed the paper and pen in front of me and turned to face the water.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s most likely your handwriting on the note that’s in the Post,” she said, “so write down the name, ‘Sam.’”

“Why not me?” Thomas asked.

“Just a hunch,” Calico said, shifting gears as she spoke. “Lemme see it when you’re done.”

“Why aren’t you looking?” asked Thomas.

“Because it has to happen the way it naturally happens,” Calico said curtly. “Now hush.”

I remembered writing that note to myself after I arrived that first time in Tarrytown, so I decided it wasn’t worth asking exactly where on the page I should write the word “Sam.” I printed in small letters near the top, so it wouldn’t mess up the rest of the paper.

“And you just wrote it small, even though there’s lots…”

Calico stopped, smirking as she saw the paper I was holding out in front of her.

“Never ceases to amaze,” she said, sighing. “How you see somethin’ that’s 27 years old one minute and then freshly minted the next.”

She turned away, reciting the rest of the letter, although it was more like a shorthand sentence with an afterthought—one that I was literally thinking about when she dictated it.

Sam Taniguchi must stay at the uh dance until midnight. Calico wears a prom dress.

“Who’s Sam Taniguchi,” I asked.

“You wrote small letters for the ‘UH,’ didn’t you,” Calico noted, finally turning back and taking the paper from me. “I figured that out while I was at the front desk, asking about postage. One of the clerks had a University of Hawaii notebook beside them. He told me it’s not too far… less than two miles up the hill.”

“I want to write something,” Thomas said, practically bobbing up and down in his chair.

“Who’s Sam?” I insisted.

“You haven’t heard of him?” Calico asked, hope fading from her face.

I shook my head and so did Thomas. Calico frowned and then wrote on the second piece of paper. It was her stats; Calico McGregor, Wyoming Station, December 1968. She passed it to Thomas.

“You get to write now,” she said, handing him the pen. “Name and stats, please.”

He hesitated, looking at me while he held the tip of his tongue between his teeth.

“You know how to spell your name,” Calico urged, tapping on the page.

“I just want to do it right,” he said, returning his tongue to the security of his teeth. He wrote, Thomas Ediger, and then paused before completing the line; Seneca Station, 1975, June.

“And when are you from?” he asked.

“September, 2001,” I said.

His eyes went very wide and then he looked down at the table.

“Liam can write it himself,” said Calico, shifting the paper back to me. I completed my entry and she addressed the envelope.

“Pony up the cash, boys,” she said, surveying the papers and folding them. I put my seven cents on the table. Thomas was counting the coins he had in his lap.

“Just put it all up,” Calico scolded, in the midst of sealing the envelope.

“Exactly thirteen,” Thomas said putting two nickels and three pennies onto mine.

“Is there more?” I asked. But Thomas looked snide, holding up his open palms for inspection. No sooner had he given this very clear evidence of our financial status, than Calico had to beg off ordering anything from the waiter who appeared at our table. After the dirty look we all got from the waiter, Calico told us to wait by the doors to the hotel while she went in to mail the Post.

“That’s the lady from the laundry,” Thomas said, pointing at one of the two black and white photos on a signboard sitting just inside the lobby. It was that same smiling face on the big woman who had passed us downstairs.

“I thought her name was Clara,” I said. This sign said she was Hilo Hattie, singing at 8pm with The Royal Hawaiian Hotel orchestra conducted by Harry Owens. I guessed the other photo was of Harry.

“Maybe she’s a spy,” Thomas said. “A double agent with an assumed identity.”

I chuckled. It was a funny thought.

Calico saw us and waved for us to come in. We ran to catch up as she headed through to the front doors. The lobby was so beautiful. Big furniture. Intricate upholstery. Massive palms in gigantic pots, standing guard by stately square columns. A high ceiling with exposed beams. It looked even better than some of the old New York hotels, almost like pictures of places in Europe. The difference was, every other man here was dressed in military uniform and the women looked like they were outfitted for a fashion show. And they all felt happy, like they’d just started summer vacation.

We got a final look of indignation from the doorman who had banned Thomas and me from the hotel. He was holding the door open for us, his mouth gaping as he recognized us.

“Thank you, kindly,” Calico said politely as we passed and then she braced herself on our shoulders as she navigated down the steps.

“Thought you didn’t want us getting in trouble,” Thomas said.

“We’re not going back in there again, anyhow,” Calico said. “And we’re looking for McCully Street on the right hand side.” We’d barely even gone half a block when she stopped and leaned on my shoulder.

“Oh, Lord. These shoes,” she said, wincing. She undid the buckles and removed them.

“They’re not even high heels,” I said, seeing that her heel was no more than an inch tall.

“You sound like Margie Harper,” she said, scowling. “Girl at my high school. She’d be laughing at me now. And I said, I wanted the sandal and my Postmaster insisted these would be best, and ‘True to the times.’” She sighed once both shoes were off and in her freehand.

“C’mon,” she said, urging us along the sidewalk.

“You can’t do it barefoot,” I said.

“Have you seen the souls of my feet?” she asked, hopping one footed long enough for me to get a quick look. “Tougher than most boys.”

“I’ll say,” said Thomas. Calico shot him a look.

“I think your dress looks very pretty,” I said. Calico just shrugged and kept on walking. It wasn’t a lie. It appeared homemade, I thought, particularly in the way that the white ribbon ornamented with small blue flowers was used repeatedly as decoration on the pale blue fabric. But the more I looked at it, the more I saw how carefully all of the seams were completed, on the short sleeves that puffed at the shoulders, at the rounded neckline and then on the drape of loose pleats that reached Calico’s ankles.

“Just stop starin’ at it, will ya’?” Calico begged, seeming more than disturbed. “I already feel dumb enough.”

“You look very grown up,” I said. She gave me a troubled look.

“It sucks to be grown up,” she said. “You can’t squeeze through the boards in the barn anymore because you grow these,” she said, planting her palms right on her breasts. “Your hips spread and you have to learn to walk all over again. Next thing ya’ know, your mother’s trying to get ya’ into girl clothes. And now, I’m finally going to a dance. And it’s not even on a real date. It’s to go and find a Jap.”

Hearing her say that was like getting slapped, and I literally jerked back.

“What?” she asked, frowning. “You don’t think I see the cruel irony in this? My uncle got killed fighting the Nippers in the Pacific. Wasn’t supposed to happen. Same as we weren’t supposed to have to pitch in for Pa, considering his misfortunes. Now I’m here and the one person I need to find… we need to find… and supposedly save, is the same kind that started it.”

She had picked up the pace as she became angrier, and Thomas and I were doing hitch steps to keep up.

“And you don’t think the guy in the alley…”

“He was a Drifter,” she responded quickly, shooting down my idea. Still, I couldn’t get him out of my head. How odd it was.

“And if we’re Drifting here to keep Sam at a dance,” she continued, “I’m thinking he’ll at least find his own way to get there.”

“I see it! McCully,” Thomas said, taking off at a run.

“He’s got a metal flask in his pocket,” I said, finally alone with Calico.

“Does he?” she said, nodding. “Good to know.”

“Cali, when I came in,” I started to say, before she took off running.

“Crikey!” she yelped, “I gotta get a leash on him.”