The moment of elation passes. Natalie doesn’t like to think about now. “Nineteen, twenty!” she yells in her loudest almost-thirteen voice.
She wonders if the others can hear her. The noise isn’t as bad down here as it is upstairs, but the walls still vibrate to the music blaring at them from the speakers outside. Someone named Barry Manilow, her mom told her. Supposed to drive them crazy, his singing, but the noise is what she can’t stand, the in-your-face decibel count, not the words or the tune. Three days, this has gone on—ever since the men came. She wishes it would stop, they all do. The endless droning has become part of her dreams, when she’s lucky enough to sleep.
“Ready or not here I come!”
She opens her eyes and scans the room. It’s about twenty feet wide and three times as long, gloomy like a tunnel. There are several casement windows high up on the left wall, but thick sheets of plywood have been nailed in place over them. The only light comes from a special bulb Father hooked up to the generator so they could use the room to play. Just one light, that’s all they can spare—no one knows how long the men will be here.
One light is all the children really need anyway. They have played here so often they know every nook and cranny, and Natalie knows where the good hiding places are. One or two of her playmates will be wedged in between the stacks of old mattresses that line the far wall. Someone always hides in there, usually one of the boys; they never seem to mind scratching themselves on the springs popping out through the bullet holes. Some of the others will be
crouching among the targets, disappearing behind the life-size cardboard cutouts of men carrying rifles.
The boxes and crates that the special guns and bullets came in offer some good hiding places. The boxes are strewn in piles around the near end of the room, crazy towers of wood and cardboard, the sort of jumble that never would have been tolerated before the men came. But now no one cares. The orderly disposal of trash doesn’t figure that high anymore on the family’s list of official concerns.
Natalie creeps slowly toward the piles. This is where her sister will be hiding. Stephanie likes it in among the boxes, where she can see Natalie coming and leap out at her as she approaches. That’s what Stephanie likes best about the game: trying to scare her sister. and being caught.
Normally, Natalie likes it too. But in the dim light the crates remind her of the dinosaur skeletons Father took them to see once, creatures with huge, misshapen heads and mouths swollen with angry teeth. old bones ravenous for the living. As the oldest and the one in charge, she isn’t supposed to be afraid, but suddenly she is. Maybe it’s the music, how it drowns everything out, the sound of someone breathing or of a giggle being suppressed, the clues that usually tell her another child is near, that they’re just playing a game.
Or maybe it’s that she senses what’s coming, in the funny way children sometimes do.
She wonders where her mother is, why she hasn’t come to check on them yet like she promised. There’s a shadow crouching behind one of the crates, and Natalie heads toward lt. “I’m going to find you,” she chants as cheerfully as she can. “Here I come.”
She turns the corner, expecting to find her sister, but there’s just her jacket wedged into the side of the crate, like she’s been eaten and this is all that’s left. It’s ridiculous, Natalie knows, but her mind goes off on a tear, thinking the worst, imagining monsters. “Stephanie?” she calls, her voice quavering.
Which is when Stephanie leaps out from behind her and yells, “Boo!”
Natalie yelps and spins around, and before she realizes it her hands are wrapped angrily around Stephanie’s arms and she’s shaking her, screaming, “Don’t do that! Don’t ever do that!”
Stephanie starts to cry. It was an excellent trap, leaving the jacket out as a decoy, and normally Natalie would have laughed about it, congratulated her sister and told her well done. That’s all Stephanie was hoping for, what she was expecting, a little levity, a little praise, maybe bragging rights for having been so crafty. instead, she got this, and so she cries, her look of pure delight transformed into pain and confusion. “I’m sorry, Natty,” she sobs.
“Oh no, Steph,” Natalie says, disgusted with herself. “No, no, no.” She holds Stephanie close, nuzzling the wonderful warmth and smell of her, trying to squeeze the trembling out of her. “You just scared me, that’s all, I’m sorry. That was real great, real tricky. You got me good.”
When Natalie looks up, the other children are standing around them, unsure expressions on their faces. They’re scared, and at first, she thinks it’s because of her, because of what she did to Stephanie. But then she notices it: there’s something else, something about the room.
The room is quiet.
* * *
Stephanie pulls away and gazes up at her with mirthless brown eyes. “Where did the music go?” she snuffles, using the back of her hand to wipe away snot and tears.
“I don’t know.”
The others stare at her, waiting. They aren’t ready to accept her answer, because surely there’s more. it’s her job to know things, to be ready with explanations; that’s one of the roles she plays for them, always has, helping them to makes sense of the many things that don’t. So they give her time to figure it out, knowing she will.
“Maybe they’re sick of the music too,” she shrugs.
Lame, and she knows it. No one responds. They’re all secretly thinking the same thing, and they want her to say it out loud, to make it real. But Natalie resists—there are too many other explanations, none of them good.
Sometimes, if that’s what it takes, she’ll lie to them. Not bad lies, white ones, to make them feel better. Like Santa Claus. But she can’t do that now. To tell those lies, you have to believe just a little bit in magic, and for reasons she can’t explain, her faith in that is abruptly gone.
But Jason, the oldest boy. still has it. “Maybe they’re going away,” he ventures. “Maybe Aunt Katie got the men to give up.”
In an instant the others are all nodding and smiling and saying, “Yeah, that’s it. Aunt Katie did it, she did it!”
Stephanie tugs at her. “Are they, Natty?” she asks hopefully. “Are they leaving?”
It’s at least possible. Father let Aunt Katie go out to talk with the men yesterday. Maybe she really did make them understand how wrong they are.
Jason doesn’t give her a chance to speak, though, and Natalie knows why. He’s feeling what it’s like, to be the one with the answers. He’s enjoying it, the way she always has, and he doesn’t want her to take the feeling away, that warm little spark of power and love and significance. “Let’s find out,” he shouts.
An exuberant cheer erupts, and the others are pulled along in Jason’s wake as he drags a crate under one of the windows, hops up onto it and begins tugging feverishly at the plywood. Stephanie pulls free of her sister and dashes along with them. Pieces of plywood splinter off in Jason’s hands. He crooks a finger through a small opening and strains against the wood until nails start screeching free of the wall.
“Father told us to stay away from there,” Natalie warns. Jason, his expression troubled, stops and sucks at his raw fingers. “That was before the music stopped,” he says. “Do you really think he’d mind?”
“Do you really think he would want to be disobeyed?” a heavy voice booms, filling the room like a gunshot from one of Father’s big rifles.
Jason’s eyes widen and his face turns white. The other children freeze. Standing in the doorway is a big man, Uncle Rumer, Father’s top lieutenant. His bushy thick eyebrows are sitting high on his forehead, like the caps of storm clouds. No one dares to move, not even Natalie, although she is the first to speak, knowing that someone has to or it will be worse for all of them. “Hello, Uncle,” she says.
“Finally,” he answers somberly, “one of you acknowledges me.” He strides heavily across the wooden floor until he is standing among them. Like all the male adults, he dresses in blue jeans and a loo
se white shirt, and carries a pistol wedged tightly into his overtaxed belt.
Even standing on a crate, Jason has to look up to meet Rumer’s gaze, which fortunately he’s brave enough to do. Rumer is even tougher on those who look away when he scolds them. “What are you doing up there. Jason?” he asks in a strangely indulgent tone.
Natalie tries to answer. “He was just—”
Rumer snaps his fingers. “Let him speak for himself. I’ll deal with you next.”
The boy stammers. “The music. I thought maybe—”
“Thought what?” Rumer demands almost gently. “That you know better than Father?”
“No, Uncle, never.” Jason is clearly scared, although he’s trying not to show it. “We just hoped the men were leaving.”
Natalie barely sees the kick, it comes so fast, like the darting of a snake’s tongue. Rumer’s foot whips out at the crate underneath Jason, and suddenly it isn’t there anymore. The boy drops heavily to the floor, one knee breaking his fall with a loud crack. There are tears in his eyes as he struggles back to his feet. And once he’s up he leans his weight away from the damaged leg. But he bites his lip and manages not to cry—Rumer despises crybabies.
“Sorry, Uncle,” he whimpers.
Stephanie is the first to see Father. He’s standing only a few steps behind Rumer, a shadow against the light, long hair catching the pale beam like a halo. Father can do that, sneak up on people, catch them unawares. “Father!” Stephanie squeals with delight as she runs over and leaps into his arms.
“Little one,” he laughs. He carries her over and sets her down next to Natalie, then eyes his lieutenant. “What’s going on here, brother?” he asks.
“The boy.” Rumer’s voice becomes strangely small. “I caught him disobeying you.”
There’s at least a head’s difference between the two men, and Rumer must weigh at least a hundred pounds more. But despite his disadvantage in height and weight Father still seems bigger. That’s how it is with him – he has a presence that transcends size. He’s larger than life somehow: smarter, stronger, happier, infinitely more intense, like he’s living faster than everyone else, at a speed they can only imagine.
Rumer points at the window where the plywood has been picked away. “He was trying to open it.”
Father nods, his lips and eyes narrowing. “I see.”
Jason is looking up at him, his upper lip quivering, fighting against the tears. No one wants to disappoint Father this way, least of all Jason, who is so anxious to join the ranks of the men. Father kneels next to him and gently checks his knee. “Curious about the music, were you, son?” he asks softly.
Jason winces and suppresses a sob. “I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean—.”
“Jason,” Father interrupts. “Don’t compound your mistake with a lie. You were curious, it’s okay. In the future, just ask.” He hugs the boy, rubs his hair affectionately and stands up.
“Did it occur to you,” he asks, turning on Rumer, “that you were doing exactly what those men out there accuse us of doing?”
Rumer is visibly shaken by the ice in Father’s voice. “What– but—,” he stammers, “I was just enforcing discipline.”
“By nearly breaking his leg?”
“That was—”
“An accident I’m sure. We can’t afford accidents like this, Rumer. That’s just what those men want—justification, and something like this could be it. Now get upstairs and take your station.”
“Yes, Father,” Rumer acquiesces timidly. On his way out of the room he casts an angry glance Natalie’s way, like he hasn’t forgotten the punishment he intended to mete out to her. For not stopping Jason from climbing up on that crate, she guesses. And Natalie knows he won’t forget either. That’s his way, to hold a grudge, and now that Father has scolded him in front of all of them, it will be worse. But for now, she’s just glad to see him go.
Father pushes the crate back under the window and, with one powerful pull, rips the plywood away. Cloud-muted daylight streams into the room, blinding them for a moment. “Natalie,” Father calls, motioning her toward the crate. “Get up and tell the other children what you see.” When she hesitates, confused, he smiles and urges, “Go on.”
A wonderful thought hits her: Maybe Jason was right, maybe the men really are leaving. If anyone can make her believe in magic again, it’s Father.
She climbs eagerly up onto the crate and looks out. Across the packed dirt yard a tricycle is lying on its side by the pole where their tattered American flag snaps in a stiff breeze. And beyond the tricycle, halfway up the hillside toward the trees, are the men, hiding behind their jeeps, trucks, cars, tanks. Her heart sinks. Turning around, she feels trapped by all the expectant faces turned up toward her. “They’re still there,” she whispers sadly, and slowly climbs down and lifts Stephanie into her arms.
“Yes,” Father says. “Still there. They only stopped playing the music to let us think over their latest ultimatum. I’m sorry, children. I wish I could tell you otherwise. But don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt you.”
He tells Natalie to run upstairs and get Jason some ice while he takes the others to the bedroom for their nap. Before she goes, she kisses Stephanie, who’s crying again, only this time she’s not alone.
* * *
The kitchen faces the apple orchard out back. Uncle Rumer and Natalie’s mother, Megan, rifles at the ready, are keeping watch by the window and the door. The blown-out glass has been covered with blankets and plywood, except for a couple of small holes they use to peer through and, if it comes to that, shoot through. At the kitchen table, Aunt Yvonne is opening a can of something and pouring it into a pot.
The blankets flap-snap in the wind. Natalie has to blow on her fingers to keep them warm—the cold just seems to flow ln. She asks her mother for the ice.
“What for?” Megan asks.
“For Jason.” Rumer casts her a dark glance, a warning to pick her words carefully. “He hurt his knee,” she adds, “fell down. Father says he needs ice.”
Aunt Yvonne stands up with a sigh. “I’ll get it.” She starts rooting around in the freezer and plunks a few cubes in a small plastic bag. She holds it up with a look of disgust. “This is all we have left. You kids should be more careful, all that roughhousing . . .”
“Really, Natalie.” Rumer glowers at her. “You’re responsible.”
Megan seems to be ignoring all of this, staring out her window like she’s mesmerized by it. It’s almost like she wants the men to attack, like that’s what she’s been waiting for. Not just now, but all these years.
Natalie thinks of something her father once said before he left, that her mother was looking for something he couldn’t give her, he didn’t even know what it was. One night, after one of their arguments, he came upstairs to her room and just sat there at the foot of the bed saying, I can’t get through to her, what does she want from me, what? As if Natalie knew.
“Mom?”
Her mother glances at her just long enough to say, “Yeah?”
“You said you would come down and see us.”
‘‘I’m sorry, honey. I’m on duty.”
“Uncle Rumer came down.”
“He was checking on you kids. When I get off, I’ll come down. OK?”
That’s supposed to be it, her dismissal, but Natalie lingers. She isn’t planning to ask the question, but it’s been there ever since Father made her look outside to see the men, and it comes out of her all at once, no hesitation: “Where’s Daddy?”
Simple words that take the room by surprise. The three adults exchange glances, shake their heads. But the other two leave it to Megan to answer, at least for now. “You just told me Father was downstairs,” she says.
“I mean Daddy, Mom.”
“Father is your daddy,” Megan answers curtly.
“Now,” Natalie says, clutching the ice. “I just mean, you know, before.”
“There was no before.” This answer seems to satisf
y Megan as sufficiently final, and she turns back to her vigil.
“But do you think he knows where we are? About all this, I mean?”
Megan lowers her head against the wall. “How the hell should I know, Natalie? The man you’re speaking about left us a long time ago.”
“But doesn’t he, you know, wonder about us?”
Megan slams the butt of her rifle against the floor and fixes her daughter with a stare as cold and hard as the barrel. “Dammit, Natalie, what do you want from me? I gave you a family. Look around you—Uncle Rumer, Aunt Yvonne, Father, me, the others. All those brothers and sisters you have downstairs. This is your family, this is who you should be worrying about, not some jerk who split the scene, God, I don’t even know how long ago.”
She begins to cry, nothing overdone, practiced little sobs, just enough to alert the others that she’s in pain. Yvonne scoots over to console her. “Don’t let her upset you,” she tells her. “She’s just a child.”
“Why does she have to bring him up like that?” Megan sobs. “I’ve tried to be a good mother.”
“And you are. Sometimes children don’t understand.”
Yvonne’s right—Natalie doesn’t understand. All she wants to know is whether her father is aware of what’s happening to them, maybe he can help. Maybe if he knew, he would come back, and that wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
“Mom,” she says, trying to explain.
But Rumer grabs her roughly by the arm, his thick knuckles kneading into her flesh. “You’ve said enough for now,” he hisses. “First that stunt with Jason, and now this. When are you going to grow up, show some responsibility?”
“But—”
“Just get your ungrateful butt downstairs. Your mother will come down when she can.” He points her out of the room and catapults her with such force she ends up sprawled out on the cold linoleum in the hallway, cubes of ice scattered around her. Rumer’s payback—not so bad, by his standards: a scraped elbow, a bruised shin, stuff she can live with. She picks herself up, collects the cubes and heads back downstairs.
Ring of Years Page 5
