Clare Vanderpool - Moon Over Manifest

From the sounds of things, we’re a ways off from the zone of advance. It sounds like a thunderstorm in the distance, with the rumble of cannons, and every so often the sky lights up like lightning. If I close my eyes, I can almost picture being in Manifest under a stormy June sky. Almost .

Sarge says we’re moving out first thing tomorrow morning. Zero hour, he called it. Guess this is what we came here for, so we might as well get it over with. Now I know why they kept Heck, Holler, and me together. We were the fastest guys at camp, along with a chap named Eddie Lawson. Sarge asked us to be runners—guys who sprint back and forth from regiment to base camp, getting orders and supplies. He said it was voluntary, but we weren’t about to turn it down. Eddie won the toss, so he’s out on his first run right now. He’s fast as the dickens. Plus he’s an ace of a guy. Can’t wait to hear if he saw any action .

From the trenches next to Holler’s widerlich footen,

Ned

Hero Abroad

JUNE 29, 1918

Eddie was killed last night. Shot just a mile from here. A mile. He could run that in a little over four minutes .

One Short, One Long

JULY 3, 1936

I’d read through so many news articles about the influenza that I’d started to feel achy and chilled myself. And in this July heat there was not a chill to be found. Then Ned’s letter went from sunny to sad so fast. That was when I knew I needed a break from looking at the past.

Lettie, Ruthanne, and me took turns jumping rope, the heat from the summer sun making sweat run down our backs. We all agreed we’d outgrown jumping rope, but Shady’d given me such a nice gift of a skipping rope, and when there’s nothing better to do, I guess you go back to what once felt good. Plus we were in no hurry to become ladies if that meant not getting to go frog hunting or wear overalls, or having to act all proper, like Charlotte Hamilton.

Besides, it was the day before the Fourth of July and we had to think of something to do. The only fireworks on people’s minds were possible sparks from an outdoor fire that might make the whole dry town go up in smoke.

The playground was empty except for us and the dirt we churned up with our rhyming.

“ I had a little teddy bear, his name was Tim .

I put him in the bathtub, to see if he could swim .

He drank up all the water, and he ate up all the soap ,

And the next day he died with a bubble in his throat. ”

I said the rhymes but wasn’t really paying attention. Little Eva’s nesting doll nested itself in my mind and had taken its place on my bedside windowsill. I marveled at how each memento had made its way into Miss Sadie’s story. After all this time of working at her house, there was a comfort in knowing that I was connected to her stories. By those mementos I’d found under the floorboard—the Wiggle King lure, the Liberty Head silver dollar, Shady’s cork, and the tiny nesting doll—I was connected to this place and those people. The places and names on Ned’s map were familiar to me now.

And there was Jinx. I felt like I understood this boy who had lived life from one place to the next. This boy who was full of adventure. I held out hope that Gideon would be mentioned in one of Miss Sadie’s stories. But there was only one memento left. The skeleton key. I wished it would somehow lead me to Gideon. It was probably in this kind of wishing and hoping that I’d started imagining maybe I had found him. I imagined that Jinx and Gideon were the same person. That maybe it was my own daddy who had landed in this town and found a friend in Ned and made fireworks and blew up a water tower and had people who cared about him. Maybe that was who Jinx was. It was in this imagining of him that I’d grown to love that boy from long ago.

Ruthanne and I turned the rope as Lettie jumped out. It was Ruthanne’s turn.

“I’ve got a new one.” Lettie and I turned the rope as Ruthanne jumped in.

“ In the town of Manifest there was a spy .

They called him the Rattler but who knows why?

Was he slimy like a snake, was he dirty like a rat?

What we really want to know is where he’s at .

“ Is he the butcher, the baker, or the undertaker?

A miner, shoe shiner, or a railroad liner?

The milkman, the mailman, or the railroad brakeman?

Is the man on the loose, riding in the caboose? ”

Just then, we saw Sister Redempta walking over to school. Lettie and I instinctively dropped the rope, figuring we’d better not be singing about spies on school property. Why a teddy bear choking on a bubble seemed appropriate subject matter, I can’t say.

Anyway, it was a nice chance to sit, each of us on a swing, letting our toes draw lines in the dirt.

“Sure is hot,” I said.

“Sure is,” Lettie echoed. “I bet Charlotte Hamilton is romping in some cool beach water down in South Carolina.”

“Oh, who cares?” Ruthanne piped up. “We’ve got a whole spy hunt all to ourselves right here in Manifest.”

That was looking on the bright side. I’d been keeping Lettie and Ruthanne apprised of the latest goings-on in Miss Sadie’s stories, and our conversation generally revolved around Manifest in its earlier and more exciting times. I think it helped distract us from the dry, humdrum, and heat of the here and now. For us, part of that excitement was, of course, the Rattler.

“He’d have to be someone with some connections to the world outside of Manifest,” I mused. “Someone who could pass along secret information to the enemy.”

Ruthanne perked up. “I’ve got it. Who’s in contact with people outside of Manifest every day?”

Lettie snapped her fingers. “Cousin Turk. He delivers fertilizer to folks all over the county.”

Ruthanne glared at her and I couldn’t help giving her a look of half pity, half consternation. “Cousin Turk is barely eighteen years old.”

Lettie recovered, saying, “Who’d you have in mind, Ruthanne?”

“I had in mind someone who was actually alive when the Rattler was going about his business.” Ruthanne drew her lips in like she was getting ready to spit a seed.

Just then, Mr. Cooper, the barber, stepped outside his shop across the street to shake out his apron.

“What about him?” Lettie whispered. “Maybe he’s like the Barber of Seville.”

“Who’s the Barber of Seville?” I asked. We jumped from our swings and snuck toward the side of the barbershop for a better look.

“I don’t know exactly, but I think he had long, wild hair, because he was the only barber in town and had no one to cut his hair. And he probably spent day after day cutting one head of hair after another, until one day, he just snapped.”

Mr. Cooper took out his razor and wiped it clean with his apron. He examined it in the sunlight, then wiped it again and went inside.

“And on that day,” Lettie continued, “the Barber of Seville took out his razor and waited for the next sorry soul to come darken his doorway and occupy his chair. He got the man all lathered up for a shave, but left his throat clean, then—”

“My word, Lettie! You have some imagination,” Ruthanne said. “I think he’s just a barber. Let’s go check out the post office.”

But something caught my eye in the shop window. It was a picture. I crept around to the front of the store. An old picture of a group of men wearing overalls and miner’s hats. Each looking into the camera. Looking at me with—what was it? Hope, desperation, defeat? I couldn’t tell.

I looked up to see Mr. Cooper staring at me through the store window.