by Penn Gates
She feels rather than sees George smile in his corner.
Nix curbs her impatience. “Who is this kid, Gramps? Do you trust him?”
“George?” the old man says indignantly, then coughs. “I wouldn’t have made it without George, and the farm would be gone to hell in a hand basket. He’s taking care of all the cows—with no milking machines.”
She breathes a sigh of relief and sticks her gun in its holster before throwing her arms around Gramps’ thin shoulders and hugging him until he protests. She doesn’t remember him being this frail. He’s always been a bear of a man.
She pushes away the thought and turns to George, holding out her hand. “I’ll take that handshake now, if you’re still in the mood.”
George unfolds his lanky frame and takes her hand in a firm grip. “I am pleased to meet you, Miss St Clair." His expression says ‘I told you so’, but there’s no resentment in his eyes.
“Call me Nix,” she says. “Everybody does.”
“I thought you said your name was Phoenix.”
Gramps wheezes out a laugh. “Once you get to know her, you’ll see there's more to it than the short version of her name. She’s the most contrary person I ever knew.”
George looks confused.
“Nix is slang for ‘no’,” she explains. “Just Gramps’ little joke." She glances at her grandfather. “And I don’t plan on changing any time soon.”
She sobers suddenly. “Damn! I forgot about Martin!”
“Who’s Martin?" George and Gramps ask at the same time.
“I've got a kid stashed in the root cellar with the potatoes,” she says. “He's probably scared to death by now. I’ve got to let him know everything's OK.”
“I have young ones hiding in a cellar, too,” George says sheepishly.
“What kids?” Nix asks with a sinking feeling.
“My brothers and sisters,” George explains. “Mr. St Clair is giving me all the credit for doing the chores, but I could not get it all done without their help.”
Nix frowns. “How many are we talking about here?”
For the first time George looks a little belligerent. “There are three girls and three boys,” he says, and rushes on with his explanation. “Three of them are old enough to be working like grown-ups. The three small ones can do chores.”
Nix realizes she’s offended him. “Well, let’s get all of them out of their hiding places so they can warm up and get something to eat. We’ll talk later about how we’re going to manage for the winter.”
“We were not, uh, planning on staying for the winter,” George falters.
“Don’t mind her,” Gramps wheezes. “She always did expect the worst to happen.”
George looks at the old man with concern. “You are right,” he says to Nix. “It would be much better if we talk later.”
As Nix goes to get Martin from the root cellar, she wonders why George's words make her feel vaguely uneasy. She'd been so sure that if she could just reach Gramps’ farm, everything would be OK, just like it had been when she’d sought refuge here as a child. She certainly hadn't planned on eight extra mouths to feed when she set out on her journey. But with Gramps so sick and the power off, she's begun to realize there's no way she can handle the farm and care for two dependent people alone. She begins to regret her hasty response when George mentioned his siblings. If he and the rest of the Shirks leave, how the hell will she manage?
Chapter 3
When Nix opens the root cellar door she's unnerved to find only darkness. “Martin,” she whispers, “I'm back. Turn on the flashlight.”
No light flickers on in response. Down below, surrounded by stone and earth, is perfect silence. Oh God! Did he think I wasn't coming back? Did he leave? Where the hell would he go?
Nix gropes in her pocket for the Zippo she's been teased for carrying since she quit smoking ten years ago. Her first partner had given it to her before he died. Passing the flame he'd called it. It was the only reason she'd held onto the damn thing. Who knew it would actually be useful someday, let alone twice in three days?
The small flame wavers in a draft coming from somewhere. She extends her arm out over the stairs. The cellar is full of shapes that could be anything, but none of them morphs into a little boy.
“Martin!” she calls. “I've got a light. Look up the stairs and you can see it's really me. Go ahead and take a peek.”
There's a faint rustle, which Nix hopes is Martin and not a rodent. Suddenly light shows faintly through burlap and then bursts into brilliance as Martin throws off his cover. Nix hastily flips the lighter shut as the kid launches himself up the stairs and puts a stranglehold on her legs.
“Hey, it's OK now, bud. I'm sorry I took so long, but everything's all right. Let's go up to the house.”
Outside it's already growing dark in the early twilight of fall. Martin keeps stumbling and Nix bends down and scoops him up. He wraps his arms around her neck in a stranglehold and clamps both legs around her waist. Nix doesn't protest. She just wants to get him inside. He's been cold for the last two days, and probably a considerable time before that. No time for flu season this year. No medicine either, probably.
The kitchen is feeling warmer. There's an oil lamp in the middle of the table and one on top of the refrigerator which, without electricity, will become nothing but a well insulated cupboard. A young woman is cooking something on the wood burning cooking stove that Gramps refused to replace. Another younger-looking girl places dishes in front of several children seated at the table.
“Miss St Clair,” George says, rising from his chair. “I would like you to meet my brothers and sisters.”
Nix tries to peel Martin off her, but he clings like a barnacle so she settles for peering over his head, which is buried in her shoulder.
George points to a boy who looks to be about thirteen or fourteen. “That is Michael."
A pair of cool gray eyes stare back at her from under dark brows at odds with his blonde hair. They give him a fierce look which startles Nix. If she were to meet the two brothers separately, she'd never guess George and this kid were related.
“Pleased to meet you,” he says in a voice devoid of enthusiasm.
“Michael!” George says sharply. “That is no way to treat a guest.”
The brows come together like thunder clouds. “We're the guests, brother, not her.”
George's fair skin reddens, but he doesn't argue with Michael's blunt statement, choosing to continue his introductions as if he hadn't spoken.
“My sister Margaret is over there by the stove cooking us a delicious supper, and Mary here is setting up the table.”
Margaret turns to look at the newcomers. She smooths her apron and tucks a stray wisp of brown hair into her small white cap before smiling shyly. The young girl at the table nods her head once and continues laying out silverware.
“These little ones at the table are Peter, Paul, and Elizabeth,” George says, giving them an encouraging smile.
Elizabeth giggles and looks down at her hands. Peter and Paul, who appear to be twins, nod and stare at Nix with curiosity written on their faces. She's guessing it's the child in her arms that's grabbed their interest.
“My name is Nix,” she responds. “Nobody ever calls me Miss St Clair.”
“The children will call you Miss St Clair,” George says firmly. “They must show respect for their elders.”
He's correcting me not them, Nix thinks. Subtle, these Mennonites.
She whispers in Martin's ear. “You've got to let go now. I can't breathe.” She grips his arms and pulls them away from her neck. “Look, there are other kids here. Isn't that great?”
When the younger ones see that Martin is black, they stare. Nix finds it hard to believe they've never seen a black person before and then realizes they probably think he's her son.
Elizabeth giggles again, but she flutters her fingers at Martin in greeting before covering her eyes as if by doing so she can make herself inv
isible.
“Okey-dokey,” Nix says firmly planting Martin's feet on the floor. “It's time to wash up so we can eat." She automatically turns toward the bathroom, which is the only one in the house and was last updated in the late 20's.
“Uh, there is no water— the pump is not working without electricity,” George says apologetically.
“Shit!” Nix says under her breath. She'd been looking forward to a long, hot bath. Need to correct that situation immediately.
“There is a basin of water and soap and towels over there.” Margaret points to a table near the back door.
“Thanks." Nix pulls Martin with her. “Take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves. You need to scrub those hands hard after the past few days." She dips a cloth into the basin and wipes his face. “Wow, you look almost as good as new,” she says and adds a smile to show she's making a joke.
Supper is simple, but it's the most delicious food Nix has ever eaten. Fried potatoes with cabbage and onions may not be gourmet dining, but when you’ve involuntarily fasted for a couple of days, it tastes like heaven.
“I am sorry it is not more,” George says. “We have not had time to go looking for supplies.”
“I can take care of that tomorrow,” Nix says. “I'll drive the truck into town and load up.”
“The truck is near to be running out of gas,” George says sheepishly. “We drove it back to our farm to rescue the chickens. They are good layers, though, so we have plenty of eggs to eat.”
Nix grits her teeth to keep from making a comment that will only cause hard feelings. She knows Mennonites use tractors and lawnmowers and other power equipment. Odds are, there's gas over there. Why didn't he think to pour it into the truck's gas tank?
“We'll talk about it later,” she says instead and concentrates on savoring every mouthful. She glances at Martin to see how he's doing. It looks like he's falling asleep sitting up. In another couple of minutes he's going to be face down in his plate of potatoes.
“Where can I put Martin?” she asks. “He's exhausted. It was a long, hard journey.”
“He can sleep upstairs with us,” Peter volunteers and then flushes at his own boldness.
“That OK with you?” Nix asks George. Who knows if he feels the same way as Michael but is too polite to show it? Nix knows she's never bothered much about other people's feelings, but now would be a good time to give it a shot if she wants them to stick around for awhile.
“Of course,” he answers, sounding surprised.
“Show me,” Nix says to Peter. She puts her hand on Martin's shoulder. “Hey bud, you need to get some shut eye. We're going to take you up to the guys' bedroom. It'll be like summer camp.”
Martin looks panicked. “No, no! I want to sleep by you —you might have to leave.”
Nix resists the urge to scold him for not doing as he's told. If eating by lamplight with a bunch of nineteenth century farmers seems strange to her, at least it's in the house where she grew up. He must feel like he time traveled through years as well as miles.
She struggles to find the patience to explain what's going on. “Listen, kiddo, I'm going to be up for a while yet. I've got to take care of my grandfather. I'll probably just stay with him all night. He's sick, you know that. You need to be brave for awhile longer.”
Martin isn't convinced. He grips the sides of his chair. All the terror he's held inside while they were on the road seems to be overwhelming him now. He jumps up and clings to Nix's leg, sobbing. She closes her eyes and listens to him howl. There's no use trying to get him to let go this time.
“Come on, Martin,” she says. “When you stayed alone in the root cellar you were afraid I wouldn't come back for you, weren't you? But I did come back, and I'll never leave you, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to—” Wait! Don't say die, she thinks. Bad, bad idea.
“Hope to turn into a—pumpkin,” she finishes lamely. But apparently, this is exactly what a small boy in a state of panic needs to hear.
Martin stops crying and sniffles. “Can I have the flashlight? The flashlight made me safe in the hobbit house.”
“Oh hell yes,” Nix says. “It's yours!" She looks around pleadingly. “Does anybody know where my coat is? I'm pretty sure the flashlight is in one of my pockets.”
Nix stands immobilized by the clinging child and hopes he's not wiping his nose on her jeans. Margaret quickly retrieves the torch and hands it to Nix.
Peter looks at it with admiration. “It's half the size of a baseball bat,” he says to Martin.
Taking care to keep one hand on her knee, Martin reaches up for the light as if he's afraid Peter might get it first. “Where we going?” he asks doubtfully, but he lets go of Nix and looks at the other boy for direction.
“I'll show you,” Peter says. “And you can shine your light on the stairs so we don't break our necks.”
Nix winces. She's never realized how many common expressions have a component of violence in them. And a fleeting memory of some of the stories she heard as a kid flashes through her mind. They were bloody as hell, but I liked them. When did we start believing kids were like hot house flowers?
“It sounds kinda scary,” Martin says.
“Nah,” Peter says. “No electricity is fun." He beckons to Martin. “You can count how many stairs. Can you count to a hundred?”
Martin looks surprised. “Are there that many?”
Peter laughs. “Do the counting for yourself.”
Martin shows enough interest in this idea to follow after Peter.
Nix turns her attention to George. “Do you think you and I can carry my grandfather downstairs?”
“Why would we be doing that?”
“I think it's too chilly up there for him. Old people get cold a lot easier than kids,” she says, wondering if he can spot the underlying criticism as quickly as she did.
“Where will be putting him once we have him down here?”
“One of the many unused bedrooms in this place has to have a bed in it. We can set it up in the dining room.”
George looks like he thinks it's a lot of needless work, but he says to Michael and Paul, “We will bring a bed downstairs for Mr. St Clair. Sooner started, sooner done.”
While the Shirk boys are dismantling a single bed, Nix sticks her head into the only other upstairs room that has a soft glow spilling out the door. Peter's adjusting the flame on an oil lamp, and Martin is lying on one of the beds bouncing the flashlight beam off the high ceiling.
“Hey buddy,” Nix says. “Let's save those batteries for when you really need light. It might be awhile before we can find any more.”
Martin quickly shuts off the flashlight, looking guilty. “I didn't think about that.”
She sits on the bed and pats the pillow. “Come on, scootch up here now and get under the covers." She pulls his shoes off before she tucks the blanket around him. “I've got to get Gramps settled downstairs. And that's where you and your flashlight can find me if you need me in the middle of the night.”
She stops talking when she realizes Martin's already passed out. Nix looks over at Peter. “Do you mind staying up here with him?”
“I will be going to bed, too,” Peter says. “We get up before dawn to start the milking.”
“How long does that take you, usually?” Nix asks, afraid she already knows the answer.
“It seems like by the time we're done, we eat lunch and it is time to start milking again.”
“Maybe I can get my hands on a generator somewhere,” Nix says, thinking out loud.
“We had one at our place,” Peter says. “It should still be there.”
“Yeah, probably is,” Nix says and wonders again why George didn't think of such obvious solutions to some of the problems he's faced. Maybe he's just so used to being told what to do, he doesn't even try to think for himself. How can he contemplate going off on his own, let alone drag his siblings with him?
Michael sticks his head in the door. “Got the bed set up,�
� he says briefly.
“Thanks,” Nix says, but he's already disappeared.
Gramps is not happy about being moved. “Why do I have to be down here? There's too much noise,” the old man complains.
“I would think you'd be happy to be in the center of things,” Nix answers. “This way you'll be able to keep track of what's going on with the farm.”
“I want to go back upstairs,” the old man whines. “Your grandmother will fret if I don't come to bed.”
Nix bites her lip. Her grandmother died a long time ago. It seems likely that Gramps has had a stroke. Maybe more than one.
“Don't worry, I'll tell her you're going to sleep by the fire because you're not feeling well. She'll understand." She tucks the blanket around him. “We'll talk more about it tomorrow. Now get some rest.”
◆◆◆
In the kitchen, Nix and George sit at the kitchen table eying each other warily over reheated cups of coffee.
“Just how bad is it out here?” Nix asks. At the moment, she really doesn't want to know. She wants to pretend that the warm glow of the oil lamp and the homely comfort of the stove is all there is. That the world outside is as it has always been. Somewhere, the local grange is meeting. People are in their houses in front of the TV. Teenagers are parked on a country lane for a few hurried kisses.
George shakes his head. “I talked to the bishop's son over the telephone just once.” His voice breaks and he's silent until he regains control of himself. “That has been a long time already,” he mutters, talking more to himself than to her.
“You stayed here because of my grandfather, didn't you?”
George nods. “It is God's will. God did not want him to die, or he would have gotten The Sickness.”
“Thank you,” Nix says simply, deciding not to debate God's intentions.
“It is hard for my family because we do not know the area so good,” George says. “We came from Pennsylvania when Bishop Oberholtz wrote to my father about a farm for sale." He frowns. “There are good opportunities here to put in egg barns, even if some Englishers do not want any more—they are saying they smell." He blushes and glances at Nix to see if she's taken offense at the Mennonite name for people outside their own culture.
