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.
Dear Kenny,
Everybody’s okay. I don’t think I can say much more than that or you won’t be able to read it. I opened your July box early and the paper was rotted so I couldn’t make much out. I think you’re okay. There was something about a John Wald. Broke my own rules and look what it got me? There is one thing I can do, though. I can give you the letter. It’s from your grandmother. She said I should put it in the box for you. She said you have to open it right away.
Good luck. I miss you. I’m coming to get you.
Your friend for all time,
Luka
PS: Okay I can’t resist two things. One, your parents know everything and they’re waiting for you to come home.
PPS: Look at the name on the big coin. Keisha said the man who attacked her dropped it.
“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 envelope. Sure enough, that was my grandmother’s handwriting, same as on every birthday card and Christmas card. I shut the box and tucked it under one arm.
“What’s that?” said the thin man. His voice was showing some strain now. “The thing is, do I know you from somewhere? You ever … I don’t know … you ever wonder about your memories from a long time ago? Hey, what am I saying. You’re a kid. You don’t even have a long time ago, right?”
The seal on the envelope was old. It opened easily. Inside was a short letter.
Dearest Kenny,
I have a message I have waited twenty years to tell you. You are the little hobo boy. Come see us.
Oh, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to run. I think a bad man is coming to get you. He has a yellow tie.
With love always,
Your grandmother,
Harriet Maxwell
“Maybe I do know you from somewhere,” said the man. “I think I can help with something. I think you’re Kenny Maxwell.” He stepped forward again, frowned, and looked at the coin in his hand. “Hey, there’s that tingling again. What does that mean? I think I used to know.”
That was enough. I took the box from under my arm, the large coin still rattling inside it, and stepped forward, thrusting it toward him.
He screamed. Blue sparks flashed in his hand, and he almost dropped his coin. The box insulated me from the shock of same-meeting-same, but I could feel the coin struggling inside it. Using the distraction of the blue sparks, I slammed into the man’s side and rushed past.
It felt a little like the last part of that “Going on a Lion Hunt” song the kids who go to camp always come back knowing. Down the creek bank, through the mud, across the creek, up the bank. At some point, the man calling himself Beckett took up the chase, while all along the large coin that bore his name clattered around in my wooden box. As I ran, my brain raced faster than my feet. Wasn’t Clive Beckett dead? Why did this man call himself Beckett and carry a coin with the name on it? He seemed more charming than the madman in the raincoat who had shot me. Was he Prince Harming? Were we wrong about that other man?
I risked a glance behind me as I reached the overhang above the hiding hole, as John Wald called it. Beckett wasn’t running. “It’s okay,” he shouted to me. “I just want to sort it out, who the man was. I can’t remember all of it. I just want to talk.”
I didn’t slow down.
When I reached the hedgerow that hid the carriage house, I ran into Lilly and Peggy coming out.
“Oh, there you are,” said Peggy. “What on earth is wrong with you?”
I almost collapsed onto them, heaving shuddering breaths.
“Kenny, is something wrong?” said Lilly.