A Place so Foreign | Page 4

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A Place So Foreign ==================
My Pa disappeared somewhere in the wilds of 1975, when I was just fourteen years old.
He was the Ambassador to 1975, but back home in 1898, in New Jerusalem, Utah, they
all thought he was Ambassador to France. When he disappeared, Mama and I came back
through the triple-bolted door that led from our apt in 1975 to our horsebarn in 1898. We
returned to the dusty streets of New Jerusalem, and I had to keep on reminding myself
that I was supposed to have been in France, and "polly-voo" for my chums, and tell
whoppers about the Eiffel Tower and the fancy bread and the snails and frogs we'd eaten.
I was born in New Jerusalem, and raised there till I was ten. Then, one summer's day, my
Pa sat me on his knee and told me we'd be going away for a while, that he had a new job.
"But what about the store?" I said, scandalised. My Pa's wonderful store, the only
General Store in town not run by the Saints, was my second home. I'd spent my whole
life crawling and then walking on the dusty wooden floors, checking stock and unpacking
crates with waybills from exotic places like Salt Lake City and even San Francisco.
Pa looked uncomfortable. "Mr Johnstone is buying it."
My mouth dropped. James H Johnstone was as dandified a city-slicker as you'd ever hope
to meet. He'd blown into town on the weekly Zephyr Speedball, and skinny Tommy

Benson had hauled his three huge steamer trunks to the cowboy hotel. He'd tipped
Tommy two dollars, in Wells-Fargo notes, and later, in the empty lot behind the smithy,
all the kids in New Jerusalem had gathered 'round Tommy to goggle at the small fortune
in queer, never-seen bills.
"Pa, no!" I said, without thinking. I knew that if my chums ordered their fathers around
like that, they'd get a whipping, but my Pa almost never whipped me.
He smiled, and stretched his thick moustache across his face. "James, I know you love
the store, but it's already been decided. Once you've been to France, you'll see that it has
wonders that beat anything that store can deliver."
"Nothing's better than the store," I said.
He laughed and rumpled my hair. "Don't be so sure, son. There are more things in heaven
and earth then are dreamed of in your philosophy." It was one of his sayings, from
Shakespeare, who he'd studied back east, before I was born. It meant that the discussion
was closed.
I decided to withhold judgement until I saw France, but still couldn't shake the feeling
that my Pa was going soft in the head. Mr Johnstone wasn't fit to run an apple-cart. He
was short and skinny and soft, not like my Pa, who, as far as I was concerned, was the
biggest, strongest man in the whole world. I loved my Pa.
#
Well, when we packed our bags and Pa went into the horsebarn to hitch up our team, I
figured we'd be taking a short trip out to the train station. All my chums were waiting
there to see us off, and I'd promised my best pal Oly Sweynsdatter that I'd give him my
coonskin cap to wear until we came back. But instead, Pa rode us to the edge of town,
where the road went to rutted trail and salt flats, and there was Mr James H Johnstone, in
his own fancy-pants trap. Pa and me moved our luggage into Johnstone's trap and got
inside with Mama and hunkered down so, you couldn't see us from outside. Mama said,
"You just hush up now, James. There's parts