Shenanigans
The little girl sighed as the shopkeeper excitedly pointed out the specialized patterns she'd stocked, fingering the big bolts of fabric arranged on the wall. Her grandmother, of course, was delighted, chattering about her latest quilting project and asking questions. She stepped over to the spot where the shopkeeper stood, ambling through the narrow spaces between the racks of fabric, her cane making an echoing sound every time it pounded on the worn wooden floor.
The little girl didn't follow, but inched towards the front window of the tiny shop. Outside the sky was a vivid blue, and it took every ounce of her willpower not to just rush out of the shop at that very moment. Her grandmother had promised ice cream and wandering along the river if she came along for the trip to Jericho, but she now rightly suspected that the true purpose of this trip was for her grandmother to explore this new quilt and fabric store, down to every last hook and eye. The promises of fun were a side trip that would come later, as they always did when her grandmother was working on a new project and on the hunt for materials. The first couple of times, she had found these trips interesting. She had delighted in examining the funny shaped buttons, the scraps of shiny or fuzzy fabric, and especially, the parts that made a sewing machine work. Now, at the wise age of six, she had come to resent these trips that coincided with each time she was left in her grandmother's care. She had realized that she did not share her grandmother's love of quilting, and had seen enough bolts of cotton and packages of embroidery needles to last the next six years of her life, and beyond.
Usually, she put up with these visits to fabric shops and quilting shows as patiently as she could, trying to enjoy, at least, the fact that it usually meant visiting new towns and counties, not to mention quick visits to diners, toy stores, and petting zoos that usually followed. Today, however, it was difficult to stay standing quietly in the tiny, musty shop, watching the blue sky from inside. It was one of those days when the first hint of summer is in the air, on the hot breeze, whispering of long, lazy days to come in a few short weeks. She had convinced her grandmother to let her wear a summer dress, and she longed to go outside and feel the sun on her bare arms.
She glanced over. The shopkeeper had taken out a catalogue, and it sounded like her grandmother was talking about the quilt she'd entered in the Filmore County competition last year. This would take awhile. She looked once more out the large window. Perhaps if she went outside, just for a bit, her grandmother wouldn't be too upset. After all, she wouldn't go far, and her grandmother would be able to see her through the window. She was so entranced in the catalogue, she probably wouldn't even notice.
She carefully pushed the shop door open, looking back one time. Her grandmother was talking about her plans to make a quilt as a wedding gift for her father's cousin. She didn't notice the shop door closing, or her granddaughter's exit.
Outside, the delicious breeze blew through her hair and made her dress billow around her pale legs. She laughed a little, feeling slightly giddy at her own intrepidness. Never had she taken it upon herself to just walk away during one of the quilt shop extravaganzas. Basking in her newfound freedom, she looked up and down the street upon which she now found herself. There were a number of other people walking around, enjoying a lazy almost-summer day too. There was a young couple, strolling slowly and holding hands, a couple of families, fathers carrying children on their backs and mothers having animated conversations as they casually put hands on their children's shoulders. She jumped back quickly as a pair of teenagers zoomed by on roller blades.
Feeling daring and a little apprehensive all at once, she took a couple of steps along the sidewalk. She was past the quilt shop now. She continued down the street, scuffing her sandals against the curb, thinking to herself about the grownup way she would spend her time without her grandmother by her side. I'll stop in the ice cream shop, she thought, and maybe I'll find a bookstore where I can look around for awhile, and I'll finish by walking down by the river, by myself. Nagging at the back of her mind was the thought that she'd never even been to this town before, but the part of her that had decided to leave the shop in the first place pushed that thought even further away.
She had gone a little way down the block when a noise distracted her. She spun around to see a bicycle lying in a heap on the side of the road, and a sandy-haired boy crumpled on the ground nearby, clutching his knee. Another boy, wearing a baseball cap cocked to the side, was stepping off his bicycle, shaking his head. The boys were bigger than her- she wasn't very good at guessing ages of older people, but she thought they would at least be in middle school. She hesitated for a moment before running over to them.
The boy on the ground was still holding onto his knee, but his friend was laughing. “Stanley, that was the worst wipeout I've ever seen on Franklin street!”
“Thanks a lot. Why'd you say Casey Walters was standing over there laughing at me?”
“I didn't think you'd actually look. I thought you don't care what Casey says or does.”
“Shut up!”
“Here- you dropped this."
Both boys looked up to see who was speaking to them. A little girl in a red sundress and matching ladybug hairband was holding a damaged-looking bike pedal.
The boys looked from her to the bicycle on the ground, or rather, to the metal stump on the end of the crankshaft where the pedal had once been attached. “Aw, crap!” said the boy named Stanley. The other boy was laughing too hard to say anything, but Stanley grumpily took the pedal from her outstretched hand.
“Is your knee okay?” she asked hesitantly.
“Fine,” he said, his face turning red.
“Maybe you'll have to borrow your Uncle Paul 's cane, Stanley!”
“Shut up, Jake!” He pulled himself up and examined his bicycle. The handlebars had twisted sideways. “Just look what you did to my bike.”
“It wasn't me,” deadpanned Jake. “It's not my fault you love Casey.” His friend swiped at him, but he dodged his arms.
The little girl had stepped towards them, and was now bending over the bicycle. “Hey, what are you doing?” asked the one called Stanley.
She had her hands on the chain. “It came off,” she said. She let go and they could see she had replaced it.
“Oh. Thanks,” said Stanley awkwardly. She was still leaning over the bike. “Could you move back a bit? You're blocking the bike.”
“Sorry,” she said with a slight blush.
“It's okay,” he said with a little more kindness. “Jake, help me.”
With a roll of his eyes, the one called Jake stepped over to the curb. “Stand back,” he cautioned the little girl. She stepped a fraction of an inch back, keeping her eyes on them.
The boys each gripped the handlebars, and after much arguing back and forth, they managed to figure out a system, putting their feet on either side of the wheel and pulling as hard as their pre-teen arms could manage.
Jake sent an annoyed glance at the little girl as she giggled. She couldn't help herself- the faces they were making as they worked were the funniest thing she'd seen all day.
Finally, the handlebars shifted back into position, and the boys each swung towards the ground with the force of it. Stanley caught himself before he fell on the asphalt, but Jake crashed onto the curb.
Stanley was laughing this time, and Jake sullenly stood up, brushing the gravel off his knees. “Maybe you'll need a cane too,” mocked Stanley.
“Here,” it was the girl again, handing him his hat. He grabbed it quickly, shoving it on his head, and muttered his thanks. He looked over at his friend, who was surveying his bike with a mournful look on his face. “It doesn't look so bad Stanley.”
“The first new bike my parents ever got me,” said Stanley. He was looking down at the pedal he still held in his hand.
Jake made a face. “Give me that!” He proceeded to shove the pedal back onto the bike.
“You might have to weld it back together.” The girl, again. He squinted down at her. “Yeah? How would you know?”
She looked up at the big boy. His tone sounded mocking, almost mean, but the look on his face was different. “My dad had to do that when the mirror got clipped off his car. That pedal- it looks like part of it broke off when you fell. I could help you- I helped my dad fix my bike.”
“Did you have to weld on the training wheels?” he asked with a smirk.
Narrowing her eyes back, she said, “No. You only have to screw those on. And I took them off myself.”
Stanley, meanwhile, had taken the pedal, and had successfully re-attached it, though it stuck out at an odd angle. “See? We don't need to weld it. It just screws on. ”
“Maybe you should get a new one. That one might fall off when you're riding it,” she said.
“Naw, it'll be okay,” he said.
“You might get hurt again,” she said pointedly.
“I can handle it,” he said with a grin, standing up as tall as he could.
“You might need a cane,” she said quietly.
Jake laughed, catching her eye and she giggled too. Stanley punched his friend lightly on the arm.
“Don't worry- I'll get my dad to look at it when I get home. I hope he isn't too pissed at me,” said Stanley.
“I'll tell him it was an accident. He'll have to believe me,” Jake said with a swagger.
“Yeah right, then he'll blame me for sure,” said Stanley. “Or maybe he'll blame you. My mom's still mad at you for the herb garden.”
Suddenly, another voice cut into the conversation. “Heather!”
The girl turned around, her face becoming white. A grey-haired woman was marching towards them, with surprising speed for someone with a cane. Her expression was livid, and the boys instinctively shuffled backwards, but she was looking only at the girl. She arrived beside them, and although she was fairly short- Stanley was probably taller- she towered over the girl.
“I turn my back for a second, and when I turn around again, you're gone! What were you thinking?”
The girl who had been so talkative when it came to bicycle parts stared down at her grease-stained hands.
“I'm still waiting for an explanation. Well?” Silence. “I'm very disappointed in you.”
She reached for Heather's hand, and started to lead her away, muttering about shenanigans and ice cream.
Stanley stared after them, a dumbfounded look on his face, and Jake smirked, but found himself taking a step forward. “S'cuse me!” he called.
The woman slowly turned around, a look of surprise on her face. Stanley watched his friend in disbelief.
“Um, you don't have to get too mad at her. She saw my friend fall off his bike, and she came out to help.” He saw the woman taking him in and wondered vaguely if she'd heard about him from the other old ladies in town, because she looked at him with the same expression they usually wore. She raised an eyebrow. “Look, he hurt his knee. He'll probably need a cane.” He glanced down quickly at the woman's own cane. He suppressed a snicker. She looked even more incensed.
Her nostrils flared and she seemed as though she were considering saying something else, but instead turned to her granddaughter. “I don't care what these boys were doing, you know better.” With that, she spun around quickly, pulling the girl along with her.
Heather looked back quickly over her shoulder. The boy with the hat shrugged his shoulders, in what he seemed to mean as a sympathetic gesture. She gave him a small smile before turning around and following her grandmother.
Jake leaned towards his friend. “Don't start acting all crabby like that when you get your cane.”
Stanley made a face. “That kid was weird, huh? Like an annoying little sister.”
Jake shrugged again. “Well, she wasn't as bad as my brother. Trust me. So do you think you can make it all the way to the bridge on that bike?”
“I can do it,” scoffed Stanley. “I'll be there before you.”
Jake laughed, jumping onto his bicycle and taking off. Stanley quickly raced after him, narrowly avoiding a couple walking hand-in-hand across the street.
* * * *
Cleanup
“I waaaaant you to leave me aloooooooone!”
Darcy Hawkins bit her lip to keep from screaming herself as she bent over her son. “Samuel, get up off the floor now!”
“I don't want to go home!”
She crouched beside him, grabbing at his flailing arms. “Samuel, we are not talking about this here. Come on up.”
“No no no no no!” With surprising strength, he pulled his arms out of her grasp and continued sobbing and pounding his fists on the tiles.
“Sam- Samuel!” She tried to get him to look her in the eye, but he would have none of it. She put a hand to her head. This was becoming all too familiar. “Samuel, you are too old to be doing this.”
Hearing a squeaking sound nearby, she glanced quickly to see the teenage employee wheeling a yellow bucket, giving her an embarrassed smile before taking a mop to the tomato sauce on the floor.
She gave him the faintest smile before turning back to her son, avoiding the other customers' stares the best she could. She wished she could tell them that her son was usually sweet and good natured. That his terrible twos hadn't even lasted long. That this had only started a couple of weeks ago, and for a good reason.
She told herself this, every time she had to deal with one of Sam's tantrums. In his mind, there was a good reason to scream and cry. In fact, all of them had a good reason, and she sometimes envied Sam because he was the only one who felt like he could break down and cry in the middle of the supermarket.
“It's not faaaaaaaiiiiir!” he was screaming now.
“Sam, come on, we've got to go home now.” She said it as firmly as she could, though the words sounded hollow to her. Home would be so much like here; Sam crying and screaming, and her pretending everything was alright and they were really going to be fine.
“Mommeeeeeeeee! It's not faaaaaiiiiir!”
He was right, she knew. He was the only one who could say it. Allison wouldn't; she went up to her room after school and sat in silence at the dinner table. She certainly couldn't say it herself. She wanted to tell someone, anyone, how very unfair all of this was. How she hadn't agreed to this, hadn't signed on for it when she'd accepted the diamond ring she was still wearing now. While she knew he was telling the truth, it still didn't help her. She was fighting, every single day, to keep all of this together, and every time Sam collapsed on a floor in public, she felt like she was that much closer to joining him.
“Sam!” She knelt down right in front of him, grasping both his shoulders firmly. “Look at me, Sam.” He looked at her, with big teary eyes. She willed herself not to let them break her resolve. “I know, honey. I know how you feel. But we can't talk about it right here. We have to go home.”
“But Mommy-” he choked out. “I don't want to go.”
She took it as a sign to move, that he was sputtering but not pounding the floor. She grabbed her purse with one hand, her son with the other, and pulled them off the ground as she stood.
Sam continued to cry and protest as she led him away, but he didn't struggle out of her grasp. She looked straight ahead, determined not to catch the eyes of any bystanders, and determined not to lose the stony grip she held on what she had left.
At the checkout counter, Mimi Clark pretended to be busy studying the package of frozen vegetables in her basket as the noisy pair marched through the automatic doors. She hazarded a glance their way as they left, seeing the child trying to pull away and the mother yanking him along. There were a number of customers standing in line, but an awkward silence followed as the store employee continued to clean up the broken glass and pasta sauce. Letting out a shudder, Mimi made a silent vow to never have kids.
* * * *
Survival
The darkness to which he had become accustomed was interrupted by blinding light as the back door was opened. Another man was ushered into the van. The doors slammed behind him and once more, they were in darkness.
The man let out a loud sigh, and struggled to sit up on the hard seat. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noticed that he shared his prison with another. There was a sound; an engine started. The room was moving. After a few moments of silence, the newer passenger spoke.
“Hi. I'm Roger.”
The man already seated didn't venture a response. Roger slumped against the wall. “Seems like its not my lucky day. I guess it's not yours either, or you wouldn't be here.”
Roger couldn't see in the darkness, but the other man smirked to himself. He'd seen it before- people becoming desperate as soon as they couldn't see, reaching out to the closest living thing they can find.
“I guess it would appear that way,” he said in a gravelly voice. “What did they get you for?”
After getting over an apparent shock that the other man could speak, Roger answered, “Said I was traveling in a restricted area. You?”
“Something like that.”
“I think they mean this whole part of the country is restricted. It's the only way I know to get to Texas, if you want to avoid a hot zone. It's like they don't even want people moving from one spot to another anymore.” Roger rubbed his knuckles together.
“Doesn't surprise me," said the other man. “We're in a war. Or did you not hear about it, in whatever little township you wandered away from?”
“Oh, I've heard,” said Roger with a grim chuckle. “Some stuff, anyway. They don't let much information get out, so no one I meet can tell me much.” He paused a moment. “I'm from Chicago, originally. You?”
“Nowhere special,” said the man. For the first time, Roger detected a weariness in his voice.
“I've been on the road for a year now- seen things I never could have imagined.”
The man offered no comment, knowing people often talked just to say what they were thinking.
“I used to imagine going home, but after everything I've seen, I don't know if I'd want to go back and see what's left of it.”
“Isn't Chicago dust now?”
“Yeah,” breathed Roger. “It's gone. I mean, the small town I wandered into.”
“I knew you were one of those.”
“One of what?”
“Small-towner at heart. I bet you went in for the quiet life, the country girl and the fishing contests at the lake every summer.”
Roger laughed sardonically. “Maybe I am. Never wanted to be, but after the bombs, I just wanted to find a place that felt like home again.”
“So did you find it?”
“Yeah, and I lost it. Don't miss the fishing contests so much, but I had friends there. A fiance.”
“So why'd you leave it all behind?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “Had to. How about you, did you leave a country girl behind too?”
It was the other man's turn to chuckle. “No, no girl, not for a long time now. Except my own kid. Haven't seen her in a while.”
“Where is she?”
The stranger didn't answer. They sat quietly in the dark for a few moments, and Roger almost said something else when, to his surprise, the man spoke.
“Worry about her sometimes. But I know she can handle herself. I screwed up, every way I could with her, but she turned out fine just the same. Says more about her than me or her mother.”
They sat in silence another moment, each surprised that the man had revealed something himself.
“My fiance is in Kansas. Right in the conflict zone,” offered Roger.
“If your girl's in Kansas, why are you on your way to Texas?” asked the man.
Roger felt his face going hot in the dark. He asked himself this same question most nights. “I did something. She's better off without me there. I had to leave and I didn't want her to come along with me- even Kansas is better than this.” He gestured around their present accommodations. “I think about her all the time- wonder if she's even still alive. I tried to contact her a few times, but I hear not much is getting through.”
They sat in silence as the van bumped along a road. Finally, Roger asked, “Where do you think they're taking us?”
The other man shrugged. “I've heard there are resettlement camps near here. If they only wanted to stop you from going to Texas, they might put you in one of those.”
Roger shuddered. “I've been in those camps. I'd rather take my chances on the road.”
“You sure about that?” asked the man, with a hint of something Roger couldn't name in his voice.
He thought about the last camp he'd seen. “I'm sure,” he said through gritted teeth.
The man didn't respond, apparently thinking it over.
After about a half hour, during which Roger talked occasionally about unimportant things from his past, the van suddenly stopped.
“Follow my lead,” said the man through clenched teeth.
Roger was a little surprised, but merely muttered “Okay.”
The back doors opened and the soldiers were there, shoving a newly-apprehended traveller into the van. Suddenly, the first man had rushed towards the door and was struggling with the soldier, so quickly and with so much strength that he wrestled the gun out of his hands. Roger, with a split second to process this, leapt at the other soldier. He couldn't quite pry the gun from his hands, but the other prisoner pointed his at the soldier's head and he let go. Roger glanced sideways and saw that the other soldier lay on the ground, completely still. The new captive- a young man, barely in his teens, cowered in the grass a few feet away. Roger reached down and grabbed him by the arm, helping him to his feet.
“Stand back,” muttered the man. Roger took a few steps away, realizing with slow horror what the man was about to do. He glanced down as the man fired his weapon.
A few moments later, they were climbing in the front of the van. Roger sat in the passenger seat, staring at the road ahead, his face ashen.
“I thought for a minute you were going to object,” said the man, shocking him out of a trance.
Roger turned to look at him. He saw for the first time the lines chiseled on the man's face, and his sharp eyes as he looked to the horizon. “No. I've done what was necessary to survive enough times myself. I just hope no one catches us in the next few minutes.”
The other man gave a wry smile. “No one around for miles, I think. They stopped for our young friend back there.” He motioned to the back, where the new prisoner had agreed, somewhat shakily, to ride.
Roger gave a half-hearted chuckle, taking a shaky breath. The truth was, he never would get used to these necessary acts of survival.
They drove through the night. Early the next morning, Roger woke with a start. The van had stopped.
“I think it's best we part ways here,” said the man. “I think we're pretty close to the Texas border- maybe a couple hours. If you're trying to get through, you'll be better off on foot.”
Roger climbed out of the van, and the other man did as well. They walked around to the back, where the man opened the van doors. “Rise and shine,” he said to the young man, who groggily got to his feet.
Roger looked at the man, preparing to ask him a question, but instead gathered his worn back pack and slung it over his shoulder. “I have to thank you-”
The man held up a hand. “Don't mention it. Good luck finding your way back to that girl of yours.”
“Good luck, with- well, good luck.” Roger shook the man's hand, and stood quietly as the man went back to the front of the van. Within moments, the vehicle sped away, and he looked to the road ahead of him.
“S'cuse me.” He looked back. It was the kid. “Where are you going?”
He squinted at him in the dim light. “I'm not sure.” He started to walk, and noticed the kid was watching him. “You can come along, if you don't know where you're going either.” Silently, the kid walked over until he was caught up to Roger, who shrugged and turned in the direction of the Texas border. As he'd done many times before, he hoisted his bag onto his back and began walking, his fellow survivor following.
* * * *
Absolution
“And so, to conclude, I remind you to follow your instincts, always ask the important questions, and raise your voices. It is only in doing these things that we have made our country what it is today, and it is you who will make it a place for future generations to grow.”
A thunderous applause sounded around the auditorium. Trish Merrick nodded in polite acknowledgement, and stepped back from the podium. Professor Chudleigh took the microphone again, thanking her for her contribution and introducing the next panelist.
Trish took her seat on the stage and reached for the water bottle she'd stashed under her chair. She heaved a sigh a relief and felt the nerves she always got during a public speech beginning to fade. She looked to her fellow speaker, a man slightly older than herself, balding and bespectacled, and, pretending to be engrossed in his talk, tried to process what she'd seen when she'd looked out at the crowd.
It wasn't an audience that was out of the ordinary in any way. A bunch of fresh faced students, some eagerly taking notes, some slouched in the ancient auditorium chairs. She'd been asked to speak to similar groups numerous times over the past couple of years, and she had come to think she was pretty good at it. Today, however, it was one thing- one face, really- that had thrown her completely.
It had been during the first part of her talk, when she had been recounting her own days at college, so many years ago now. She had been telling a funny story, about how she had chosen her major almost by accident, and she had been looking around at their faces, making eye contact as she'd taught herself to do. A face in the third row had caught her eye, and she'd almost stumbled in her words.
A young woman sat watching, a pen and a notebook balanced on her knee. She was leaning back in her chair, but it was obvious she was fairly tall. She had dark hair, pulled back casually, and sharp facial features. A small smile played on her face- it was, after all, a funny story she was hearing- and though she looked relaxed, it was clear she was paying attention.
To anyone else, any other person asked to speak to a room of college students, she might have appeared ordinary. Just one of the many other young faces. To Trish, she was a ghost seated in the auditorium.
She continued with her speech; she was too well trained not to do so, but it was difficult for her to concentrate on the words she was saying. She avoided looking at the ghost. It was the only way she could finish. The applause at the end told her she had pulled it off- they thought she had spoken well. She knew it had been a distracted mess, but even a bad speech from her was usually better than that of an average member of the public.
Now, sitting there onstage, with the spotlight on someone else, she chanced a look out at the third row. The girl was playing with the pen in her hand, but still watching the speaker with intense eyes. Just as she had during the speech, she reminded Trish painfully of the faces she'd tried to forget for so long.
She'd seen hints of them before. Many times, in fact. Over the years, she'd see someone behind a desk, or pass someone on the street, with a similar face or profile. She would tell herself it wasn't them, it wasn't anyone, just a stranger, and now, she looked out at this girl and tried to do the same. True, it wasn't any of the particular people she had known- they would all be much older by now. But there was something about her- same hair and eyes as one, that softness around her smile, just like the other, and an expression like the third- she wouldn't say their names, but she just knew, this girl was connected to all the ghosts.
She had sent them cards and letters over the years, even money when the war was over, but it had never done anything to ease her guilt. They hadn't responded. She sometimes thought maybe they hadn't received her mail, communication being what it was in this new country, or that they had sent replies that hadn't found their way to her. She never spoke of them to anyone else, but she sometimes thought of them, what had become of them. If they were even still alive. If they had descendents of their own.
She tried to keep her eyes on the face in the crowd without being too obvious. It was like looking at an accident on the side of the road- impossible to turn away. If this girl was indeed related, she would know what had become of them, of everyone in that small town she'd desperately tried to leave behind for so much of her life. She might be able to put her fears to rest- or she'd confirm them.
Trish barely noticed what the other speakers were saying, and when it came time to answer questions from the crowd, she answered hers in a distracted tone, running her hand through her shortly cropped hair. Finally, Professor Chudleigh announced that everyone could move to the alumni lounge for a reception. Trish glanced out at the sudden flurry of activity. She saw something that made her shiver- the girl leaned over to the young man seated next to her and signed something with her hands. She couldn't tell, from this distance, in this crowded room, what she had said, but the young man laughed and signed something back.
Trish slowly made her way to the alumni lounge, reeling at her discovery. This girl could sign too. It must be her. She paused. She didn't know who she meant by “her”. She didn't know if she wanted to meet her. She only knew that fate seemed to be leading her in a bizarre dance and she would have to hang on until the end.
Though some of the students from the panel discussion had left, the alumni lounge was very crowded. Students, faculty members, and other guest speakers mingled in the closed quarters, snacking on finger sandwiches and sipping cheap wine, though it was still early in the afternoon. Trish let herself be gently forced by the swell of the crowd, until she was stuck beside a long table of vegetables and dip on glass platters. She grabbed a glass of wine from a hassled looking student carrying a tray, and looked furtively around the room as she sipped.
She thought perhaps the girl with the familiar face had taken off, but she spotted her in a different corner, talking with a few of her fellow students. With the tide of people between them, she wouldn't have to speak with her any time soon. She swallowed the last of her wine and took another glass from a different server.
A few students came up to talk to her, and one of the faculty members she'd seen in the audience. As usual, they wanted to tell her how inspired they were by her story, or about their own personal experiences during the war, or with the A.S.A. Usually she found it fascinating to hear the many survival stories, but today, she had been forced back into her own story. The one she didn't mention when she addressed hopeful hordes of students or rebuilding communities.
For the next twenty minutes, she sipped wine, half-heartedly discussed the state of the nation, and accumulated pieces of broccoli and carrots on her paper plate, not bringing herself to eat them. The room began to empty a little, and she could move more freely. She noticed the girl, leaning against a fireplace ledge, eating her own share of vegetables from a napkin. Not sure what was possessing her, she found herself walking over in her direction. Once she was right near the girl, she stood awkwardly, not sure whether to make conversation.
“Not a fan of carrots? My dad would be personally offended.” She looked over.
“He's a farmer. He always made us eat our vegetables.” The girl was looking at her, expecting a response. That slightly mischievous glint in her eye was so familiar, Trish had to steel herself to answer “Oh, no, I'm just not very hungry, I'm afraid.”
The girl nodded, taking a bite of a sandwich. Having spoken words and not been swallowed up by the Earth, Trish decided to take a chance. “I couldn't help but notice that you sign.”
The girl nodded, still chewing. She chuckled then, saying, “Just a little. My friend's deaf, so I'm trying to learn more. I knew some before- my dad showed me when I was younger. He had a sister who was deaf. Do you know sign?”
Trish nodded, as if this was all interesting conversation.
“Ms. Merrick, I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed hearing your story. I grew up in Kansas, and I always heard stories about the people in our town, and what they did during the war, but I've never heard from someone who worked right up there with J&R.”
Trish nodded again, her mouth feeling the strain of holding a smile. She had spoken of her time with J&R, and her time in Kansas, but had never gone into the details of that specific small town. “Kansas, huh?” she heard herself say. “I guess you'd have lots of interesting war stories of your own then.”
The girl nodded. “My parents lost family and friends in the war, so they made sure we knew all about it growing up. Dad was always talking about how important it was- knowing our history.”
Trish smiled. “Well, that's wise of him. So how did your parents feel about you coming out here?”
“Not the most thrilled. Especially my mom- which is weird, because she used to live in a big city. I guess she thinks Columbus is more dangerous than D.C., for some reason. She was excited though. She calls every other day. Still misses the city life, after all these years on the farm.”
“How did you like growing up on a farm?” Trish wanted to know so much more, but was careful not to make this stranger too suspicious.
“I loved it. I love being here, but I still love going home. There's so much to do in the city, but it's just so much...steadier back home. It's like, there, I'm surrounded by people and things that I'm connected to, and it's so beautiful. I love seeing the city at night, but it will never be the same as watching the sunset from our porch.”
“And you gave all that up to come here. What are you planning to do?” asked Trish.
“Well, I'm in journalism right now, but I don't know, I change my mind a lot. I know I definitely don't want to do anything to do with math.” She wrinkled her nose.
Trish had to keep herself from giggling at this. “That's a good way to look at it,” she managed. “Keep your options open. That way, if opportunities come up, you'll be ready for them.”
She nodded.
“So, a farmer's kid leaving the farm behind to be a journalist. How does that go over in Kansas?”
The girl smirked. “Well, as I said, Mom's kinda jealous about the city thing. My dad was really excited, when he got past the part where I'd be living in Columbus. It's not the city, it's just that it's far away. A lot of people from my town are kind of nervous about the outside world. You know, after-effects of the war. My dad- he went through some really rough things.” She paused, and though she was unaware, both of them reflected on those times before. “I remind him he's still got my brothers to boss around. He probably won't be able to get rid of them, I say. One of them left for school and now he's back on the farm already, so I don't think Mom and Dad will be alone any time soon.” She laughed to herself.
“Where did he go to school?” asked Trish, desperate to keep the details coming from this unsuspecting girl.
“Kansas, for agriculture. My dad was thrilled- first one in his family to go to college. My mom was thrilled for me- first one to study something besides agriculture.” They both chuckled at this.
“Have you liked school so far?” Trish asked.
“It's good. Nice that it's different from life at home. I haven't handled any dead animals yet- though I guess that could change if I take a biology elective.” She grinned. “I've been talking all about my boring life on the farm and I haven't even gotten to ask you any questions.”
She said it in a friendly way, but Trish blanched at the prospect. How much had they told her in those stories about the war? How close was she to putting two and two together?
“Well, what would you like to know?” she asked, trying to sound like a friendly mentor and not a name omitted from a tragic family story.
“See, I was wondering when you were talking about your time with J&R, what exactly lead you to realize just how corrupt they were? Like, did you have a moment where it just sort of dawned on you, or was it just a bunch of things that happened?” She was serious, expectant, looking at her with that familiar face.
“Um-” stammered Trish. “That's a good question- difficult, but a good one.”
Sensing the older woman's discomfort, the girl continued, “I know it was probably a difficult time for you, so I understand if it's hard to answer. It's just, well, my family kind of has a really bad story about J&R, so I've always felt a sort of personal connection. Like, I look for stories from other people who survived their run-ins with that company. I just thought yours was so courageous- how you gained all that information on them and used it to help the East-Texas partnership bring them down. It really shows how one person can change things.”
Trish coughed, feeling a knot in her stomach tighten. “I really didn't do anything special. Not compared to what other people did during the war.”
“Well, I think you did. It means a lot, to people who lost family members because of J&R, just to hear about people who stood up against them.” She smiled, but her eyes were serious.
“I'm sure you've met lots of others,” Trish finished lamely. She didn't want this girl's praise. Not if she hadn't connected her to the very story she was recalling.
“Yeah,” she said, with a smile that extended to her eyes this time. “My family's full of them. My parents and their friends. You can't grow up where I did without meeting some.”
Trish nodded. She tried to return the smile. It was easier than she imagined. “Well, to answer your question, what lead me to realize just how bad things were with J&R- it was a series of things. Mostly, I saw how they hurt the people they were supposed to be helping.”
The girl nodded, as though she knew exactly what she meant. Trish couldn't help but look at her a little sadly, as she realized she probably did know. Suddenly she felt the emotions she'd been suppressing so long forcing their way to the surface. She cursed herself as her eyes got suspiciously teary.
“Sorry,” she forced herself to say as the girl looked at her with surprise. “It's just that, sometimes when I think about it-”
“I know,” said the girl quickly. “I know a lot of people who lived through the war, and sometimes that's just how it goes.”
Trish nodded, supremely embarrassed to be losing it in front of a roomful of people as a young woman with a face from the past stared at her. She couldn't bring herself to say anything, only nodded in response.
“Well, I guess I shouldn't be taking all your time when there's a roomful of people who would love to talk with you,” the girl said, awkwardly but not unkindly.
“Uh, of course,” said Trish, quickly regaining her composure. “Well, it was so nice to meet you, Ms...”
“Oh, sorry, Tessa Richmond.”
She reached out a hand. Trish took it, shaking it as she said, “It's nice to meet you, Ms. Richmond.”
With a smile and a quick “Thank you”, she was gone.
Trish looked around the room at the dwindling crowd of unfamiliar faces, shivering. She hugged her arms. A moment later, she realized someone was saying her name.
“Ms. Merrick-”
She turned to see another student, a young man with red curly hair. “Yes?” she asked.
“I just wanted to thank you for coming. Your speech really inspired me.”
She smiled, trying to focus on the person in front of her. “Thank you,” she said.