The Space Between

Chapter 1

Jack Carver’s conscious life began on the night of August 18th 1937. He was four years old at the time.

Mama was standing in the kitchen. She stood in the kitchen often when the sun had gone down. There were hot things in the kitchen that Jack wasn’t supposed to touch. He had been scolded and his hand had been slapped when he had gone messing around in the kitchen when the hot stuff was on.

So, Jack liked to go outside when Mama was messing with the hot stuff in the kitchen. Daddy would be coming home from the dirty place. He called it his work. Jack only knew it as the dirty place; because his father always left looking clean and he came back looking dirty.

When Daddy left he smelled clean too, but when he came back he smelled like the stuff that Mama put on Jack’s cuts when he scraped his knee. Jack didn’t like that smell.

There was no grass outside of the house, just a plain patch of dirt and dust that swirled around with the occasional breeze from across the field.

When his father came home he would sit in his chair by the radio with a glass of brown liquid in his hand. Sometimes, he called Jack over to sit at his feet while the radio played the news or President Roosevelt talked.

During those moments Jack’s father would tell him how their little house was once a farm house and that the land wasn’t dusty and dead but alive with the growth of many kinds of plants.

Michigan has the best soil in the world, Jack’s father had told him on several occasions. It’s because big pieces of ice once covered all the land that we live on now. When it got warmer and they started to go away they dug into the dirt and tilled it.

Jack was not sure what exactly this meant. He understood what a till was because he had seen them before. What he couldn’t imagine was the giant blocks of ice that his father had explained to him somehow moved. Ice didn’t have legs.

Still, these moments were happy ones for Jack. He didn’t get to see his father much and when he called Jack over to sit at his feet he would often bend down and give him a kiss on the cheek. His breath smelled of that medicine smell, but the whiskers on his cheeks always tickled Jack while at the same time scratching him. It was a wonderful pleasurable and painful feeling.

There were times that Jack would pretend to be asleep so that his father would pick him up and carry him to his bed. Jack’s father did the same thing with Wynita, Jack’s sister, but she was only a baby. She couldn’t even walk yet, so she had to be carried every day.

The sound of a whistle pierced the air and Jack stood up. He turned back to the house and heard his mother singing, You Can’t Take that Away from Me, in the kitchen. She was still cooking with the hot things. She only sang when she was cooking.

Jack walked down the rough, dirt path that led to the road in front of their house. When he reached the road he turned left and headed around the curve to meet his father.

This was something that he had done on several occasions. His father’s work was in town, which was a long walk—just how long Jack didn’t know—but sometimes he, Jack, made it almost all the way into town before he saw his father.

Usually, though, he would see him on the road after only walking for a bit. Then his father would hand him the bucket that he carried his lunch in and Jack would carry it home for his father. They would talk about the town and work. Sometimes, father would ask Jack about letters and the spelling of words.

Jack walked down the center of the road as the sun began to go down. There were woods on his left and Jack could hear the wood sounds: birds chirping, things scuttling around the fallen leaves, branches shaking from the wind.

There was a field to the right the corn stalks blew gently. Jack looked over at the field and the wooden fence that separated it from the road. There was no one working in it that he could see, but the field was massive and there was no way that anyone could ever see the whole thing.

A new noise broke Jack’s concentration and he looked back to the road. A black car was driving towards him and kicking up dust all around it. Jack had seen the car before; it belonged to Miles Crandall who owned the field.

Jack’s father said that Mr. Crandall was a rich man. His farm was one of the successful ones left and he grew potatoes, and corn and apples and cherries.

Jack watched the car as it passed. He had only gone into town a few times with his mother and father and had not seen many cars. It seemed like some kind of miracle. It was as if some beast lived underneath the black metal and bolts that marked the outside. A beast that breathed fired and roared as it passed by.

Mr. Crandall raised his hand at Jack and Jack returned the greeting. He wondered what it would be like to afford such a luxury. Jack had asked his father about it before, but his father had waved the question away. He had said that automobiles were toys for people like Mr. Crandall and of no use to them.

When the car had passed, Jack continued walking down the road.

As the sun slid farther down the sky and the light began to ease away, Jack started to feel a tingling in his stomach. He had been walking for a long time—longer than he had ever had to walk before—and he still hadn’t seen his father. He thought that maybe he should turn around and go back home, but he had never done that before. His father had always been there to greet him.

The road twisted and ran downhill for a bit and Jack followed it. He could hear the sound of rushing water and when he came around the bend in the road he saw the Peace Bridge.

It was small, only a few feet across, and the drop to the small river below wasn’t far, but Jack stopped before he reached it. It was a wooden bridge with railings on either side and a peaked roof above it. Jack had seen it before, but never when he was alone. Only those few times that he and his family had walked into town together.

When he had been with his father and mother the bridge hadn’t seemed scary. It had been fun to cross it and fun to look down at the river below. Even Wynita had giggled as they walked across. Now, though, he seemed more than scary it seemed like a trap. Jack could imagine one of the boards breaking and then he would fall into the water and be carried away. There would be no one to pull him out, no one to rescue him.

Where was father? Why hadn’t he seen him yet?

Jack extended one of his legs and let his foot touch the wood. All the muscles in his body had tensed and he was breathing rapidly. He shifted his weight and then moved his other leg forward. Now he was completely on the bridge. There was still ground underneath him but he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life.

Jack took a deep breath in and then bolted across the bridge. His feet made hollow echoes on the wood as he pounded across it. In the matter of a few seconds, he was on the other side and once again on the road.

Jack turned and looked back at the bridge. A smile burst on his face and he felt his muscles begin to relax. He had done it; he had crossed the Peace Bridge alone. He felt different. He felt like a grownup.

The road took another jog and Jack followed it. When he came around, he saw that he was on high ground. The road took another downhill slope below him. And he could see the town.

It was a cluster of wooden buildings and criss-crossing dirt roads. There were people walking around below him. Jack couldn’t make out any detail about them, not even if they were men or women, but he could see their movement. A few cars drove here and there—going slow so as to not hit the people—and Jack could hear the faint sound of a piano.

He began walking down the road towards the town.

Jack didn’t know where his father worked—only that it was in the town—but he was sure that there would be someone that would know his father and know where Jack could find him.

He had made it about halfway down the incline when he saw a figure walking towards him. Now that he was closer, the town was becoming clearer and he could actually see the people walking around. There were ladies in dresses and men wearing suits or overalls.

Jack recognized the figure walking down the center of the town and towards the road. It was his father. Jack wasn’t exactly sure how he knew that, maybe it was something about the way he walked, maybe it was something about his shape. He wondered it that were really possible—that if you knew someone well enough you could get used to their shape so much that you could recognize them even from far away.

Jack began to run and he waved his hands over his head.

Daddy! He called out.

The figure lifted his head and raised a hand in a wave.

Jack pushed himself to run even faster. His father wasn’t running, but walking in a weird zig-zag that took him from one side of the road to the other.

Another whistle rang through the still air and Jack stopped suddenly. He turned to his right and saw smoke billowing in the sky. A train was coming through. He could only see the first few cars, but it looked like a long one.

Jack turned back to his father. He had continued walking in that strange way. He was close enough now so that Jack could see his father’s face. It was red and sweaty and his eyes were focused on Jack.

Daddy! Jack called. Daddy, stop for the train!

Jack broke into a run again. He could see the train tracks; they ran right over the road just before the entrance to the town. His father was a few steps away from them.

The train blew its whistle again, but Jack’s father kept walking.

No, Daddy! Jack screamed. He pointed wildly to his right, trying to get his father to see the train.

His father stepped onto the tracks and stumbled, almost falling to the ground. Jack ran harder, trying to make up the space between them.

His father straightened up again. Now Jack was close enough to see his eyes, they looked hazy and red. It almost looked like he’d been crying.

Jack was only a few feet from the train tracks now and the sound of the train was deafening.

Hi Jacky, his father said. His voice was full of joy.

The train whistle blew one more time and then the train hit his father.

Everything happened very quickly, but Jack saw a splash of red and watched as his father’s body flew into the air. It spun a few times before crashing into the scrub grass at the side of the road. There was the shrieked of breaks from the train.

Jack saw all of this, heard all of this. But his mind wasn’t focused on these details. His senses continued to work and so he took them in (the fodder for later nightmares) but all his attention was focused on the ground. He collapsed to his knees and heard his own screams. The seemed louder than the train. He was vaguely aware that he was crying, but all he could see was the dust on the road. The road that he had walked down to meet his father. All he could see was the road, turning to mud from his tears.

Chapter 2

People came. A lot of people. They came to him and they tried to talk to him. Jack heard some of what they were saying, but most of it just seemed like noise. A kind of low hum that didn’t make any sense. They weren’t speaking words; they were just making noise at him.

At some point he had been put into a car. It was the first time that he had ever ridden in a car, but none of it mattered to him. The things around him weren’t what he was seeing. All he could see was his father’s body flying through the air. All he could hear was the whistle of the train.

They took him to his mother and he saw the shock and fear on her face. He saw the tears in her eyes as the men talked to her. He saw her hand cover her mouth and saw the tears pour down her face.

Jack sat in his father’s chair and leaned forward to turn on the radio. President Roosevelt was talking. Jack listened to his voice, but didn’t hear the words. Just the rhythm of the voice.

He sat in the chair until the sun had gone down. His mother tried to speak to him, but he couldn’t answer her. Not that he had any idea what she was saying to him. Still, he had tried to speak, but no words would come out.

After awhile she left him alone and Jack continued to sit in the chair and listen to the radio. At some point he fell asleep. In his dreams his father floated through the air for an impossibly long time and the train whistle rang in his head until his ears bled.

Then the sun came up and he awoke. The dreams were over and still he saw his father in the air.

His mother tried to talk to him again and still he couldn’t answer her. She brought him a plate of food and he let it sit on the table next to him. The radio was still on and Jack listened to the noise and tried to hear it, but he could only hear the whistle.

Jack sat that way all day and the day after. He listened to the radio and he stared into space and she saw his father and he heard the whistle and nothing else was there—nothing else was real.

At some point his mother sat down in front of him with a bowl in her hands. There was something mushy in the bowl and she spooned it out and fed it to him. Jack’s throat did the work of swallowing and he felt the stuff slide down to his belly and still he couldn’t speak.

The light faded from the sky again and the radio played on.

When the morning came again his mother said something that got through to him. He didn’t understand all of it but he heard the word funeral.

Jack shook his head violently back and forth. His mother frowned down at him and then she spoke again. Whatever it was she was saying was lost in the sound of the whistle.

The door opened and a man walked in. It was a man that Jack recognized, though he had only seen him a few times in his life. The man was Uncle Bill. Uncle Bill was his father’s brother and the shared certain facial characteristics that made Jack turn away and look at the radio dials.

His mother grabbed Wynita and left with Uncle Bill.

After they left, Jack stood up from the chair and turned the radio off. Then he walked up to his room and lay down on his bed. He fell asleep quickly and the dream came again and his father flew through the air again and the train whistled again.

Chapter 3

For the next few days his mother came into his room and fed him from the bowl. His body didn’t want it, but his mother insisted. The sounds and sights of his father’s death were beginning to fade. They only came in full force when he was dreaming.

There came a day when his mother didn’t come up to feed him. Jack sat up on his bed when his internal clock told him that she should have been in by now.

He walked to his door and peered down the short staircase. There were no sounds of movement below him.

Wynita began screaming from his parent’s room. Jack walked to the room and opened the door.

His parent’s room was a strange and exotic place. He had only been allowed inside of it on one occasion that he could remember. Although he knew that he had slept in there (just as Wynita now did) in his crib when he was a child.

The walls were a bare white and unmarked except for a lone picture that hung, framed, above the bed in the corner. The picture was of their house—only a long time ago. It showed the wooden slats whitewashed and pristine. There was no sign of the deep cracks and chips which plagued the house now. The yard in the picture was not the field of dust that he knew but a proper field bursting with new plant life.

His mother was lying on the bed in the corner. There was a thin, wool blanket over her. Jack couldn’t understand why Wynita’s cries didn’t wake her up.

He walked to the crib and patted his sister on her head. She looked up at him and smiled. She blew little bubbles of spit out of her mouth and began babbling. A single chubby hand reached up and Jack gave her a little shake.

Mamma, I think Wynita is hungry, Jack said. He didn’t add that he was also hungry, but he was sure that his mother would know that.

Only, she didn’t answer him.

Mamma, Jack said. He turned to look at her; she had not stirred from her position on the bed.

Jack walked to her and put a hand on her shoulder to shake her. Her skin was like ice. It was as if he were pushing against snow.

Mamma? Jack said.

She didn’t answer; she didn’t move.

He pushed her again, harder this time, and still she didn’t move.

There was a small bottle next to her head and Jack picked it up. It was a clear bottle with a few little bits of white things at the bottom. They looked like candy or little pebbles. Each one was a tiny circle of the same size.

Jack put the bottle down and pushed his mother again.

Mamma! Jack screamed. Mamma, you have to wake up. You have to get up.

But Mamma didn’t get up, she didn’t move. She was completely still. Not one part of her body moved.

Mamma! Get up Mamma. Don’t you know I love you Mamma? Don’t you know I want you to wake up? We need you to feed us Mamma.

Jack’s voice rose so loudly that he could feel it thrum through his body.

Wynita began crying again. Loud wails that hurt his ears and made him want to run from the house and never stop.

Instead, Jack walked to the crib and held his arms out. Wynita held her arms out to him and Jack lifted her up. He wasn’t ready for the weight and when he dragged her over the top bar of the crib he dropped her. She landed on her side and began wailing again.

Don’t cry, Jack said. Don’t cry, we’re going to have food.

He bent down and picked up the baby again. This time he got her in his arms and carried her down the stairs. He almost lost her a couple of more times, but when he felt her slipping Jack sat down and let her weight rest on the steps.

When they reached the first floor he set Wynita down by the radio and bent down so that his face was level with hers.

Now you stay right here. I’m going to get us some food.

Wynita laughed at him and tried to clap her hands together but kept missing. He tousled her wispy hair and then went to the kitchen.

There were two bowls of mashed fruit on the kitchen counter. Each bowl already had a spoon in it. Next to the bowls was a scrap of paper with some writing on it.

Jack picked it up and looked at it. There were things he could read and things he couldn’t read. During the day, his mother would read books with him and Wynita and show him the words. His mother always praised him when he got a word right and this produced a glowing kind of feeling inside of him. So Jack tried his hardest to make sense of the words when he was reading with his mother so that she would praise him and he could feel that glow again. He got a great many words correct and learned more each day.

Jack was happy to see that the words on the note were ones that he could read, but he didn’t know what they meant.

I am sorry, Jack read.

The note looked like his mother’s writing, not that it could have been anyone else’s, but he didn’t know what she was sorry about.

Jack took the bowls into the other room and saw that Wynita had used the chair to pull herself to a standing position. She was banging on the chair with her hands while her she bobbed her butt up and down, bending a little at the legs to do it. It was as if she were listening to some piece of music that only she could hear.

Jack turned on the radio and sat down in front of her. Wynita turned to look at him and lost her balance and tumbled to the ground.

Food, Jack said. He spooned out some fruit and she opened her mouth for it. Jack fed her until the bowl was empty. Then Wynita pulled herself up again and resumed her strange little dance.

Jack looked down at the other bowl and felt the pain in his stomach. Then he looked at Wynita and sighed.

Better save this, he said and he got up and took the bowl back to the kitchen.

There was a small box of wooden blocks next to the fireplace and Jack grabbed it on his way back to the other room. He placed the blocks on the floor in front of him and Wynita let go of the chair and sat down hard. She turned her body and crawled towards him and grabbed a block.

We’re going to play, Jack said. We’re going to play until Mamma wakes up and she’ll take care of us.

Mamma, Wynita agreed.

Jack felt a sting in his nose and he reached up to his face. It came away wet.

I’m crying, Jack said. Why would I be crying?

Wynita banged the block on the floor and cooed at him.

Chapter 4

They played with the blocks and listened to the radio until the sun went down and the sky grew dark. Still, Mamma hadn’t woken up. She was probably very tired from taking care of the house by herself.

Jack fed Wynita the other bowl of fruit and then dragged her up the stairs to the bedroom. He paused with her in his arms outside of his parent’s room. Mamma was still on the bed and it looked as if she hadn’t moved at all.

You don’t want to sleep in there, Jack said to Wynita. Though from her look she didn’t care where she slept. Her eyelids were getting heavy and they kept falling down. Every once in a while her head would begin to dip to her breast and then she would snap back up.

Come on, Jack said. You’ll sleep with me.

He took her to his bed and laid her down there. Wynita didn’t try to move; she just curled up and closed her eyes.

Jack got into the bed next to her and put his arm around her and watched her breath in and out.

It’s okay, Jack said to her. You can sleep, it’s okay. I will take care of you and I will feed you and we’ll play and everything will be okay.

Wynita made a small grunt in her sleep and Jack pulled her closer to him. Soon he was asleep as well.

Chapter 5

What woke him up the next morning wasn’t his mother and it wasn’t the sun (although light had already flooded into his room) it was the sound of someone knocking on the door.

Jack stirred awake and looked over at Wynita. She twitched a little at his movement, but her eyes stayed closed and her breath remained even.

He got out of the bed and walked down the stairs. The knocking had become pounding and Jack reached up to grab the knob and twist it.

When the door was open, Uncle Bill looked down at him. His face was red and his eyes were blue and intense.

Where is your mother? Bill asked. She was supposed to come to my house yesterday.

Mamma slept all day yesterday, Jack said. She’s still sleeping now.

Uncle Bill ran a hand through his black hair. Still sleeping?

His face creased in confusion. He pushed passed Jack and almost knocked him to the ground. His long, black coat was open and it flapped with the speed of his movement.

Rita! He shouted up the stairs. Rita, get yourself down here.

She doesn’t answer, Jack said. I already cried yelling for her.

Uncle Bill wheeled on him. What are you talking about?