Over There

by Jeff Baker

The barn stood there, looking brand-new with its coat of red paint. The bright white raised letters above the doors proclaimed the barn’s birth year: 1913.

Standing there in their overalls lit by the setting sun, George glanced at Henry.

“Gotta thank you for all your help with the barn last year.” George said.

“Aw, it wasn’t anything.” Henry said. “Just being neighborly.”

“Yeah,” George said. He remembered he and Henry being very neighborly one night.

“There’s places in that barn in the corners, in the shadows, in the loft…if you want.” George said.

Henry looked at George. His eyes glancing over every fold of his clothing; the checked shirt, the way the dull buttons on his overalls still reflected light.

“If we get caught…” Henry said.

“We won’t.” George said. “This barn is on my land. Nobody will be coming here at this time of day.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t.” Henry said.

“Why not?” George said. “We may not get another chance. Have you seen the newspapers? All Hell is breaking loose in Europe. It’ll be war and we’ll be dragged into it, Mark my words.”

“My nephew Ray is itching to sign up.” Henry said. “How about you?”

“I was in the Army,” George said. “Stood guard when they took President McKinley to the Capitol for the last time. If I’m called to fight, I’ll go.”

“I never done anything Presidential when I was in service,” Henry said. “But I still have the uniform. If that mess comes over here I’ll be ready.”

The sky and the surroundings were getting darker. George and Henry watched the stars slowly emerge.

Henry looked at George in the dark.

“Let’s do something that has to do with peace,” Henry said.

The two men walked silently into the dark barn and closed the doors behind them.

Above the doors, the number 1913 seemed to be a smile in the dark.

—end—