Kindred

by Stein, Tammar

  He doesn’t nod or shake his head.

  “It sounds crazy. I think you have to be sick, you have to be scared, before you can move past this religion of science we all grew up with. But why is it that even when there are known carcinogens in a certain area, not everyone gets sick? When there was the plague and medicine was as primitive as could be, not everyone got sick, and of the sick, not everyone died.” He doesn’t answer, and I talk faster so he can’t interrupt. “Maybe God does have something to do with that. And if that’s the case and you’re sick, maybe you have an obligation to try and figure how to right any wrongs you might have done. How to uncross God, how to appease Him. How to be worthy of His gifts.”

  I risk a glace up at him and he looks so sad. I ball up my napkin, twisting it in my lap. Slowly he reaches out and covers my tightly clenched hands with his. His hands are warm and heavy, and they still my nervous wringing. I swallow a lump in my throat.

  “I don’t believe God works that way,” he says softly. “I don’t think He uses our bodies to punish us, to whip us in line like mules.”

  I start to say something, but he continues.

  “If I had to guess, I’d say we disappoint Him very often. Though after so many centuries, maybe He’s lowered His standards a bit.” He shrugs. “Maybe not. I don’t know. But if you believe in free will, which I do, then God has to let us stumble along blindly, making our choices, reaping their fruit. If there is some kind of a reckoning—punishment for bad choices, reward for good ones—it’s in the afterlife, not here.

  “I’m sorry that you’re sick. I’m very, very sorry,” he says, touching my hair softly. “But when we get sick, that’s just living in this imperfect world. That’s molecules and DNA and bacteria doing what they’ve been programmed to do, and it’s up to us to bear it and fight it and hopefully triumph over it.

  “I don’t think you’re going to be able to buy God’s indulgence, to earn a pardon or early release for good behavior.”

  I rise from my seat and his hands fall away. I swipe at the tears spilling down my face.

  “You’re wrong,” I say, my voice nearly strangled with tears. “I did something wrong and then I got sick. If I do something right, this will go away.” My chin is quivering like mad. If I open my lips again, the only thing that will come out will be bawling howls of miserable fear. So I button them tight and don’t look at the pity I know is on his hard face.

  He accepts the end of the discussion, and silently we clear the dishes. As I gather my things for him to drive me home, he says one last thing:

  “Everyone has burdens and everyone has made mistakes, Miriam.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I know.”

  I can’t afford to make another one.

  XVII.

  EMMETT DROPS ME OFF at my empty apartment. Mo’s out again.

  While I’m not telling my parents about the colonoscopy and diagnosis, I feel an urgent need to hear their voices.

  I call my mom first. But after the preliminary “I’m fine, and how are you?” I find myself hoping for better answers.

  “I think I’m having a crisis of faith,” I say.

  “Are you doubting God’s existence again?” my mother asks. In the family lore, I break out crying at age seven at the dinner table. “It’s the monkeys! How can there be God if we come from monkeys? Which is it? Adam or Koko?”

  “No.” I laugh hollowly. “I don’t doubt His existence. I am inundated with signs and wonders. I just don’t like Him very much.”

  “Ah well, now, that’s a different problem altogether, isn’t it?” my mother says comfortably, not at all perturbed. “You are in good company. There isn’t a man or woman of faith who hasn’t had a complaint or two about God. Life has a way of throwing us uncatchable lobs of misery. We tend to blame God for it, but usually in hindsight you can see things differently.” I hear the sounds of dishes clanking in the background. She must be tidying up after her tea.

  “Mom, I’m not talking about a bad grade or a car accident. It’s bigger, deeper, than that, and I do hold God directly responsible.”

  “Darling.” The multitasking clanking stops for a moment. “Has something happened? What’s wrong?”

  I stop to take a deep breath. I feel such a need to unburden myself, but I cannot find the words.

  “I’m just frustrated with where my life is going,” I say lamely. “I try to do the right thing, but half the time I don’t even know what that is. And it’s not like anyone thanks me for it, anyway.”

  I hear a soft chuckle. I do sound so young and silly complaining like that.

  “My dear, welcome to adulthood in shades of gray.”

  “Lovely,” I say, dripping with sarcasm.

  She laughs. And in her kind, patient voice, she continues: “You know that I have always believed we are God’s vessels. Perhaps you don’t like what’s before you, but that only means you’ve lost your perspective. Something to think about, no?”

  I sigh. “It is. Well, don’t let anyone say you give out easy answers.”

  She laughs again. “I have never been accused of that before. You know, this reminds me of a wonderful verse: ‘This is love for God: to obey his commands. And his commands are not burdensome.’ I John 5:3.”

  I listen to her voice on the line, the stunningly simple words that encapsulate everything.

  “I often turn to that when I feel a bit overcome. We aren’t given anything we can’t bear. And once you realize that, nothing seems as bad as it used to.”

  “Do you really believe that?” I rub a hand across my stomach.

  “I do. I really do. I love you, sweetheart.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  The next morning, I’m back at work. It’s my second day on the medicine and there’s no change in my symptoms so far. I push aside lingering worries of divine compensations and consequences, because regardless of all that, I have a mission.

  There’s clearly more to Jason’s story than what Emmett discovered, and I’m not a journalist for nothing. I’ve got sources. When Frank, wearing a pale linen suit, bustles into his office, I rise and follow him.

  I knock on the door and poke my head in.

  “You got a minute?”

  Frank looks up from the cup of coffee in his hand and at the papers strewn on his desk. “Sure, Miriam, come on in.”

  I move some folders off the visitor’s chair in Frank’s remarkably cluttered office and take a seat.

  “The Sweetwater piece runs tomorrow,” he says. “You did a nice job.”

  “Great.” A twinge of excitement zings through me.

  He shuffles some papers and then hands one to me. “Our next get-to-know-you is on Judge Bender.”

  My breath catches for a moment at the judge’s name. I make a face. “I feel like I need a chaperone to be in the same room as him.”

  “He’s a pussycat,” Frank says, waving an arm languidly. “Just a good ol’ southern boy.”

  I make a noncommittal sound. The image of Judge Bender sentencing Jason with unabashed relish flashes through my mind.

  “He’s going to be a national player one of these days,” Frank adds pragmatically. “He won’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

  That’s a kind of comfort, I suppose, but before I can think of some sort of sarcastic reply to that bit of news, Frank tells me he received two e-mails about my piece on the farmers’ market and he’s planning to publish one of them as a letter to the editor. As he’s full of praise for me, and hopefully in a chatty mood, I leap into the real reason I came.

  “Listen, I want to talk to you about something,” I say.

  Catching something serious in my tone of voice, chatty Frank suddenly seems antsy, and sure enough, I catch him sneaking a look at his watch and then turning to me.

  “I do have several appointments today.…” He leaves the dismissal unspoken.

  “It won’t take long,” I promise, and waste no more time. “I just need to know, what’s the story with J
ason?”

  “Oh, not you too,” he says testily, his usual genial manner evaporating. “I have my reasons for hiring Jason, and he’s only here for a couple of months, so just deal with it, okay?”

  This outburst is so unlike the amiable Frank that I stare at him in surprise.

  “I do like him,” I say.

  “You do?”

  I laugh at the shock in his voice.

  “Well, I think I could like him if I got to know him better,” I hedge. “I took him out for a cup of coffee a couple of days ago, but … uh … let’s just say he keeps his cards close to his chest.” That’s the nicest way I can think of to describe Jason’s unique combination of surly yet silent blankness, and I’m rather pleased with myself for coming up with it.

  Frank thinks for a moment, then nods. “All right, you bloodhound. Close the door and I’ll tell you his story.”

  I hop out of my seat and do as he says, then lean close, expecting some juicy gossip. Instead, I hear a variation on the themes I’ve already heard from Emmett. Jason is struggling in school; he doesn’t fit in. Doesn’t have many friends. Jason’s mother, according to Frank, expects to be raising a future senator from Tennessee. I vigorously suppress any eye-rolling, snorts or raised eyebrows of disbelief.

  “That must be hard,” I say.

  “It is; it’s very hard on a young boy,” Frank says, a little too piously. “Dave Finely, the principal at Warfield, came to me asking that Jason have this internship as a personal favor to him.” He emphasizes “personal.”

  “What do you get out of it?”

  He grins a Cheshire cat grin, smug and mysterious, but doesn’t answer at first. At least he’s not offended by the question.

  “It’s a civic duty,” he finally says, self-righteously. “The boy is interested in illustration and is an avid reader, though between you and me, the only thing I ever see the child read is pulp fiction or comic books.” He grimaces. “We thought landing the internship, exposure to a career that he shows some natural inclination toward—I wouldn’t say aptitude—might help him find his place in this world.”

  “But …” But I already know the answer. Jason is not thriving at the paper any more than he is at school.

  “But the boy has a remarkable ability to aggravate every soul he comes in contact with,” Frank finishes grimly. Whatever the Warfield principal promised, I have a feeling Frank will demand extra for pain and suffering. “You’re the first person who hasn’t marched in here demanding I let him go. In fact,” he says, with a sudden gleam in his eye, “since you like him so much, I’ll make him your assistant. Yes, that’s it.” The solution found, the lines around Frank’s eyes and mouth lighten.

  Frank misreads the stunned expression on my face.

  “He just doesn’t know how to express affection, is all,” Frank says, not even caring how ridiculous that sounds. He’s too happy to have solved his office problem. “He’s yours now, Miriam; teach him well. Take him along on assignments; have him write your headlines; show him the ropes.” The phone rings, and Frank looks delighted at the fortuitous end to our meeting. “Nice chatting with you,” he says as he reaches to answer the phone. “Stop by anytime.… Frank Hale here,” he says, picking up the receiver. “Betty, wonderful to hear from you.” He makes a shooing motion with his hand and swivels his chair so his back is to me. “About the fund-raiser you wanted us to cover …”

  I leave his office in a state of euphoria, amazed at my luck and thrilled about this turn of events. Jason will have to hang around me while at the paper, and the more time I have to chip away at the brick wall he’s built around himself, the more likely the chance I will break through.

  At my desk, I make a list of things we could do together, activities that might inspire him and, if nothing else, force him to spend time with me and let me get to know him better. But reading over my list—What’s your idea of the perfect newspaper article? Name five issues this paper should cover—I grow depressed. The list sounds like a cross between a really bad summer camp and a school assignment. I try to think of something better, something cooler, but don’t come up with much. At any rate, Jason is a no-show that afternoon, so I have time to devise a better strategy.

  When I arrive home, I’m surprised to find Mo. I haven’t seen him in days, and he looks a bit grungy and tired.

  “Hey, sis,” he says, closing the fridge and turning toward me. “Long time, stranger.”

  “I know; I was ready to call the police. Or Mom and Dad.”

  He shudders.

  “Where have you been?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know.” He lopes over to the couch and flops down. “Just hanging out. Chillin’.”

  I set down on the kitchen table the messenger bag I use as my briefcase and notice the crumbs and smears he’s left. There are dirty dishes in the sink. I feel like a bad parody of a 1950s housewife. I don’t say anything about the messy kitchen.

  “You got plans for tonight?” I ask. With him gone so much of the time, I’ve been lonely for his company. I want to know what he’s up to, but I also want to hang out with my brother, who, for all his flaws, can make anything fun.

  “Sorry, sis,” he says, with a quick grin to show he knows he’s disappointing me. “Already booked.”

  “Can I come?”

  He blinks in surprise. “Sure, it’s a Mortal Kombat tournament. You up for that?”

  Mo was never much for video games, and I wonder about this odd new hobby.

  “Are you lying to me?” I ask softly.

  He’s shocked for a second before he recovers.

  “That was rude,” he says, giving me a look. “This group of guys I met, we hang out and play, like, all night long. It’s crazy.”

  “It’s fun?” This is so strange, so unlike Mo—who’s always moving and plotting and active—that I can’t even wrap my mind around it. I hate myself for my growing suspicion, for the mistrust that must be showing on my face.

  For a second there, Mo’s smirky mask falls and he looks tired, the way you’d look after you’d studied all night but were still unprepared for the final exam. Then he visibly pulls himself back together and shrugs, shutting me out. “It’s a guy thing,” he says dismissively. “Don’t wait up.”

  On his way out, he gives me a big hug. I hug him back, but not as tightly. I’m so confused. I almost believe him. He pulls away and, without a backward glance, heads out.

  The apartment feels echoey and empty. I really don’t want an evening of eating a microwave dinner, watching a show and going to bed.

  On impulse, I call Trudy.

  “Hi, beautiful,” she says, her cheerful voice already making me feel better. “I hope you’re not calling to say the article was canceled, because I’ve been telling everyone we’re going to be famous.”

  “Just the opposite,” I assure her. “I found out today that the piece will be published tomorrow. I didn’t want you to miss it.”

  We chat for a bit—I tell her about the nice letters to the editor about the farmers’ market story—and maybe she’s feeling generous, maybe she can hear I sound lonely, but just when I think our conversation is about to end, she invites me over for dinner.

  “What, tonight?”

  “Sure,” she laughs. “We’re harvesting, and then having a big cookout for the interns. You don’t look like you eat more than a mouthful, and we’re cooking like an army’s coming. Join us. Our intern Rebecca is in town picking up supplies; she can pick you up on her way back.”

  “Okay,” I say, delighted. “That sounds like a lot of fun. Can I bring anything?”

  “Just your pretty face. We have more food here than we know what to do with.”

  Following the same impulse that had me calling Trudy in the first place, I ask, “In that case, is it okay if I invite a friend to come along?”

  “The more the merrier,” she says in her glad voice. “See you soon.”

  I call Emmett.

  “I have a proposition,” I say.
>
  “You sound better than yesterday.” His voice is rich and deep, rumbling in my ear and shimmying straight down my chest. Again I am struck with a surprised sort of joy that he cares about me, that he notices.

  “That’s because I’ve had a much better day,” I say. I think about the progress made at the paper, about going out to the farm. I don’t think about Mo and his mysterious rendezvous. “You know that organic farm I was telling you about?” He makes an affirmative sound. “Do you want to help harvest veggies and have dinner there?”

  He thinks for a moment. I can hear papers being shuffled.

  “Do you have to work at the shop?” I ask, already disappointed. I feel consumed by the sudden desire that he come. In my head I’m chanting, Say yes, say yes, say yes. “It’ll be so nice, and you’ll love Trudy and Hank.”

  “Sure,” he says. “Sounds good.”

  “Great! Rebecca and I will come by and pick you up,” I say before he can change his mind. “See you in a bit.”

  Rebecca, a lavender-scented intern with closely trimmed hair, drives a rickety farm truck that’s loaded with empty harvest boxes. Emmett and I end up clearing a small space next to the cab in the open bed. We hunker down, braced against opposite corners, and hold on to the hard metal sides for the duration of the ride.

  It’s oddly thrilling to ride in the open bed. No roof, no windows, no seat belts. Rebecca is a careful driver, especially with us in the back, but the turns still sway me from side to side and the odd bumps and potholes sometimes knock my head back against the cab’s glass window, causing Rebecca to shout, “Sorry! Are you okay?”

  Wearing dark cargo pants, boots and a tight shirt, Emmett looks remarkably at ease in this unorthodox ride, and he seems to weather the turns and bumps better. But like me, he does knock his head a couple of times. His expressions of surprise and disgruntlement cause me to break out in a bad case of the giggles.

  I’m wearing old jeans with holes at the knees, battered tennis shoes and a faded blue tank top. I’m not trying to be sexy, or cool, or anything else I’m probably not anyway. I’m relaxed and comfortable, and I love that he’s here with me. It’s too windy and loud to talk, so I alternate between enjoying the lovely rolling green hills, the farms and pastured horses that we pass, and sneaking glances at Emmett because as lovely as the countryside is, he’s even more appealing.