by Jerry
“After the Civil War all the slaves were set free, and black people had opportunities they never had before. They could get an education, vote and get elected to office, be full citizens.” While she talks, she rummages through a box of plastic bottles, examining several in turn. “Then white folks started passing Jim Crow laws. They took away the vote. Black people had to use separate schools, separate bathrooms, even separate drinking fountains. Separate and not equal. It took another sixty years of fighting to get back the rights we lost. Well, when I was your age, things looked better for women. Now it’s two steps backwards. A bunch of angry old men stuffed the Constitution in a paper shredder and now an eight-celled blastocyst is a person and has rights but you and I don’t own our own bodies.” She nods toward the poster of Mary McLean, the one you have been deliberately ignoring. “Is something the matter?”
You swallow. “But babies are people—if something happens to a baby before it’s born, then someone has to pay. Women have to be strong because babies aren’t.”
The doctor glances at you, as if she just noticed you, then makes some notes on your chart. You feel more naked than when you were naked.
“A woman can be many different kinds of strong,” she says finally. “Guess you have to decide what kind of strong you want to be.” She scribbles a note on the bottle. “Ignore that expiration date. Just take them all like it says right there, and come back if it doesn’t clear up.”
“I will,” you promise, but you flee her office after you pay, knowing you’ll never come back. You choose the exit farthest from the church and its watchful Pilgrims. The doctor’s visit cost almost the last of your cash. All you have left is the hundred dollar bill Boss gave you for luck. You spend it on fuel and head for the plains.
The jeep dies in Iowa, right after you pass the last town and a few minutes before you could find a tree or rock or wall to crash into. You sit shivering in the cold, waiting for the inevitable trooper to come by so you can turn yourself in. You’ve run out of gas inside too.
When the trooper comes, he zips past at a hundred and twenty miles an hour, his lights flashing. Trouble up ahead, you guess. But then there’s always trouble up ahead.
A silver Airstream glides by on the other side of the divide, speeding the opposite direction, but a few minutes later it’s pulling off the road behind you. They saw you and did a U-turn. An older couple steps out, husband and wife, the type of people who’ve been together so long they’ve started to look like each other—thick in the waist, the same short white hair, matching purple sweatsuits.
“What’s the problem?” the husband asks.
“Battery dead and out of gas,” you say, getting out to greet them. “But I don’t have any money to buy more.”
“That’s okay, we don’t have any to sell,” he says with a laugh.
And his laughter is so genuine and warm, that you laugh too. It’s all so stupid. The wife leans forward, asks, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know,” you say honestly.
The wife smiles. “Neither do we. Modern day gypsies, that’s what we are.”
Everybody laughs again, and afterward a sigh bubbles out of you. “Thanks so much for stopping. It’s very kind of you. I don’t have a phone, so if you could call the state police—”
“Why don’t I just hitch your jeep up and we’ll tow it behind us?” the husband offers. He glances at his wife. “Just into the next town.”
“That’s a great idea,” she says. Then to you, “If that’s okay?”
You’re tired of making decisions. You don’t even ask where the next town is. “If you really don’t mind.”
“No, we don’t mind,” the couple says together, voices matching like their jackets.
“On Thanksgiving it’s the least we can do,” the wife adds, all rosy cheeks and smiles.
#
Winter, and after winter, spring.
The couple’s names are Jake and Emily. They’re retired, but they don’t say from what. You don’t talk about yourself much either. But you all talk, all the time, about nothing in particular, and you laugh at everything. At night you play video games together, online or console. The roads roll away beneath you, through Utah to the Moab valley, to New Mexico and Santa Fe, then back north again chasing the flowers as they bloom.
Jake and Emily are nomads. The roads are filled with nomads just like them: from little campers like the one you’d burned, to the sleek old Airstreams, to the massive land yachts, to dirty pillows and wadded blankets in the back of rusty minivans. The nomads are people living without fixed addresses even though they have some fixed ideas. Because they despise the government and the way it wants to keep track of them, they take it for granted that you want no part of the law and never ask you why. The nomads all know each other too, like residents of some sprawling, mobile small town. Someone at every campground recognizes Jake and Emily, or knows someone who knows Jake and Emily.
You become a nomad without even trying. Jake and Emily miss their children and adopt you as an unofficial, honorary daughter. On their word alone, you’re accepted everywhere they go. The phrase “Jake and Emily’s girl” becomes your new passport. You never know why they trust you, and you don’t ask, because you don’t want to jinx it, but you work hard to be worthy of their trust. You sell the jeep to a campground owner in Oklahoma and offer to pay your own way. Jake and Emily let you treat them to one dinner, although they hardly order anything and Jake insists on leaving the tip.
In June you’re passing through Lincoln, Nebraska. Just another town, until you see the streets downtown blocked by crowds of protesters. Helicopters fill the air, film crews and gunships both.
“What’s going on?” you ask.
Jake taps the internet screen on the dashboard. “It’s the anniversary of that Supreme Court decision for the rights of the preborn, the one, uh,”—he hunches forward to read the tiny print—“Nebraska vs. MacClean.”
Emily points at three effigies nailed to crosses, carried by the marchers toward the statehouse. “They shouldn’t be allowed to do that. Why are they doing that?”
“It’s for those three women that starved themselves to death in protest,” Jake says, glancing back and forth from the pictures on the screen to the scene in front of them.
Emily’s mouth curves down like a sickle. “Baby killers who got what they deserved, if you ask me. I had six children and I took care of my body every time. You didn’t see any of my babies dying before they could be born, did you?”
“Nope,” Jake says. He never disagrees with Emily when she rants.
They remind you of your mom and dad during their better days, a memory more sweet than bitter for once. That’s when Brandon’s face appears on the screen. You jab the off button before the reporter can interview him. Emily doesn’t seem to notice, but Jake regards you with a suddenly neutral expression.
One of the government hovercams floats along the road, turning its lens toward the Airstream. You feel exposed, like a rabbit when the shadow of a hawk passes over. Like the rabbit, you stay very, very still.
As soon as the hovercam swivels away, Jake raises his hands like he’s aiming a rifle. “Ought to get my NorCal Nighthawk out and,” he squeezes the mock trigger, “pow!”
Emily frowns. “Can’t you find some quick way out of this mess?”
He points to a spot on the map. “No. Once we started down this road, this is the only place we could end up. We’ll have to just work through it.”
You watch the skies, waiting for the shadow to return.
#
On July fourth, Independence Day, the nomads gather in the Black Hills of South Dakota to shoot off fireworks and celebrate their freedom. You help Emily sell tee-shirts, and one couple mistakes you for Emily’s daughter. When you start to correct them, Emily shushes you. Other customers know just the right fellow for you. There’s lots of talk about marriage, but there always is around married folks.
“What’s wrong?” Em
ily asks, sitting in the lawn chair and sipping iced tea as the night falls. The air is so clear out here, it feels like your head is clear for the first time too. The way the stars glitter, it makes you think of souls on their way to heaven.
“I’m kinda tired,” you say.
“Tomorrow morning, some folks are thinking about driving up to see the Crazy Horse statue,” Jake says. “You interested?” As if doing something will help you rest.
“I don’t know,” you answer, still playing the role of the compliant daughter. “Do you two want to go?”
“It’s been years since I saw it,” Emily says. “That was back before those terrorists blew up Mount Rushmore, because we went there too. Remember that, Jakey?”
“Been a long time,” he answers. Then to you, “It’s worth seeing, if you’ve never been there before. Have you ever been there before?”
“No,” you admit.
“That settles it,” Emily says. “That’s what we’ll all do then.”
That night you lay in your fold-out bed, springs prodding your back, listening to Jake and Emily cuddle. They whisper to each other for a long time before they fall asleep. You can’t make out their words, but you know they’re talking about you. You wish you knew what they really think. You’re sure Jake has figured out who you are. He’s no dummy.
The next morning you make the instant coffee and tell them how happy you are to go see Crazy Horse. At the park gate, you meet a whole crowd of nomads. While Jake and some of the other men negotiate a group rate, people have their pictures taken with the Homeland Guards. The nomads like soldiers as a rule, saving their disdain for laws and politicians.
You hang back from the crowd, trying to shrink out of view when you notice two soldiers staring at you. They shift the rifles on their shoulders and walk over to Emily, who glances at you, and then shakes her head vigorously. When she sees you watching, she turns her face away and holds her hand to her mouth to hide what she says to them. One guardsman speaks into his headset, and then they walk over to you with grim expressions on their faces.
“You’ll have to come with us, ma’am,” the first one says. “We’re afraid you’re under arrest.”
You can’t quite find any air to breathe, but in a way you’re glad it’s over. “Oh?” you whisper.
The second one’s stern expression cracks into a grin. “Yes, ma’am. It’s against the law to be as pretty as you are and single.”
They stand on either side of you while Emily takes some snapshots and introduces them as Ian and Javier. You blush, wishing you were dead or very far away. Jake comes back to say the group rates are settled. The bored soldiers tell you goodbye and go back to circulating among the other visitors.
Inside the park, while everyone else browses in the gift shop, you slip out and head for one of the hiking trails. Your legs still feel like jello from your first reaction to the soldiers, so you’re panting by the time you reach the first overlook. You sit on the bench to rest.
The doomed Lakota leader points his massive stone arm out over the arid hills. His enemies had superior numbers and better technology, but he still fought against them. You aren’t sure, but you guess he must have won some battles before the end or else no one would tell stories about him.
You’re thinking that you’re not a hero. You can’t do all the scary stuff your sister Stevie does, you don’t know how to run things like Boss, you don’t even have the education or the strong opinions that doctor in Milwaukee had. You could never do what those hunger strikers did, and starve to death to protest the law. You just want to be with people who love you, with your family. You want to have a family. You’re not brave, and you never have been.
Someone vaguely familiar saunters along, one of the men from the nomad party the night before. You cringe, expecting another game of matchmaker. Your flight instinct kicks in for a second and then evaporates like a drop of water. You didn’t run away from the soldiers, so you’re not going to run away from this. Maybe you’re done running away.
The man hesitates when he sees you notice him. His face has a worn look to it, like his denim jacket. His fingers are stuck in the front pockets of his jeans, and his shoulders kind of fold forward, like wings he’s trying to wrap around himself. He scuffs his cowboy boots in the dirt. You don’t remember his name.
“Uh, hey,” he says. He shuffles forward a step, stares off at the mountain. “I mean, I was just wondering if you, uh, would mind if I, you know, sit down?”
“It’s a long hike up, help yourself.” You slide to the far edge of the bench to make more room.
He sits on the opposite end, leaving a person-sized gap between you. His long legs are half-crooked, like he’s ready to run. “You’re Jake and Emily’s girl, aren’t you?” he says. “Cassandra.”
“Yeah,” you answer, remembering him now. “It’s Lyle, right? You’re a friend of Mike and Ruth, just came up from the Sun Dance.”
“That’s right.”
Neither of you say anything for a long time. A young couple comes along the trail, pausing long enough to film their three kids against the backdrop of the mountain. The children run ahead, pretending to shoot each other with imaginary bows and arrows.
“Which way do you think he’s pointing?” you ask, tilting your head at the statue.
“Oh, I don’t know. Canada, I reckon. Land of the free, home of his braves.” He has a wry little laugh that you find attractive. “Why’re you asking?”
You shrug. “Just asking.”
“I heard there’s good jobs up in Regina. It’s a boomtown.”
“Is that so?”
“Been thinking about heading that way later if they open up the border again. Maybe even if they don’t. Was just talking to Jake about it. He thought you might be going that way too.” Lyle stares into the far distance, as if he’s trying to see something over the rim of the horizon. His hands stay folded on his lap. “Jake and Emily,” he says, after working up his courage, “they’re good people.”
“The best, both of them.” You mean it too. They probably saved your life. “Mike and Ruth, they’re salt of the earth.”
He nods. “Oh yeah, that they are.”
The silence after is a comfort that you share. The hills are covered with wildflowers, ragged things with rough edges and washed-out colors in thick clusters. Beyond the hills and the statue, a dry wind chases pristine clouds across the vast blue sky, making it appear that Crazy Horse is running. With his hand outstretched, his finger pointing, you realized he is running toward someplace and not away.
And you understand for the first time, that you can be like your mother and do the right thing without doing the thing your mother would have considered right.
#
It is the last week of December. You grip the door of the ancient pick-up truck as it four-wheels across the plains that bridge the northern states and southern provinces. Without a road in sight, you and Lyle make your way through a swirling snowstorm that keeps the military planes out of the air and covers up your tracks behind you as you go.
The faint smell of gasoline churns your stomach. Several milk jugs of it are stored under the cab in back, along with your sleeping bags, which is pretty much everything that both of you own in the world. You play with the radio dial, but only static comes from the tinny speakers, the sound equivalent of the snow outside.
Lyle clutches the steering wheel with both hands, leaning forward to look through the windshield. He can be so gentle and clumsy at the same time, full of old hurts, still searching for himself and looking everywhere but in his own heart. You won’t say that you love him, but he’s a good man.
“You feeling better now?” he asks. He reaches for your leg and you flinch. He pretends not to notice, rests his hand on the seat between you instead.
You spread your fingers on your stomach. It’s been twelve weeks and your morning sickness is getting worse. You can barely keep down your peanut butter sandwich. “Much better.”
The
truck jolts up and down, struggles out of a ditch, and climbs the next long, low hill. You glance over at the side mirror to see how far you’ve gone but it’s turned so you can’t see the reflection.
“Shit,” Lyle says. Worry strains his voice. “We’re in deep trouble if we get stuck out here, Cassie. I’m sorry for getting you into this. I’d understand if you hated me—”
“No.” You rest one hand on top of his. Summertime and butterflies stir in your stomach. “We’re going to be fine.”
You can tell he doesn’t believe you.
That’s when you have a sudden vision of a sunny morning five, ten, fifteen years down the road: you’ll be standing in the kitchen beside the pictures on the refrigerator, breathing in the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, when there’s a knock on the door. It’ll be men with guns and warrants. You’ll ignore the cams hovering over their shoulders and ask if you can call Lyle to have him pick up the kids from school, and then you’ll go off in handcuffs with your head held high. Maybe you can’t be a hero, maybe you can’t change the world, but you’ll have changed your own life. Lyle and the kids will cry and be numb for a time, but they’ll find some way to cope while you go off to prison.
You squeeze his rough hand.
“It won’t be easy,” you promise. This is your life sentence. “It won’t be easy, but everything will turn out fine.”
THE EINSTEIN GUN
Pierre Gévart
Right now, pen in hand, I’m well aware that what I’m about to do is probably of no use whatsoever. Yet it seems to me that I ought to write this memoir, even if nobody ever reads it; even if I myself, at some point, lose the ability to remember the events I’m describing! Even if all of this has never actually been.
My name is Otto-Abram Siesienthal. I was born in Gloggnitz about 100 kilometers south of Vienna, where my father was a watchmaker. However, this noble profession didn’t appeal to me. I preferred to study history at university in the capital. Thanks to the old Emperor Franz-Joseph, I won a scholarship and obtained my diploma in 1913. A year later, I had the great good fortune to follow my supervisor Albrecht Finnmayer as head of Modern History in Linz, before returning to the University of Vienna three years later.
