“Red Hat.”
“So how is Red Hat? Williams closing in?”
She tucked her head in her chest and started a full sprint down the street.
“Let me know how he’s doing later, okay?” Cheevers yelled after the strange sight—a woman who ran in a nearly zigzagged fashion as if trying to avoid a barking, biting, little puppy.
Margaret ran, sprinting through the intersection where she had dropped her can of beans, and up to the front door of Full Brands, panting, looking around, and pondering if anyone had noticed her. The whole world looked upon this strange beast with gathered stares and pointing fingers.
She walked through the door calmly, and once again began her sprint, this time down aisle two, nearly plowing over an old couple into the soup cans, where she had once stood defenseless against the onslaught of Reverend Davies. The store manager saw her and had an immediate suspicion that something wasn’t right. He jogged behind her to the frozen food section. She ran to the ice cream freezer and stopped immediately by the Josten’s Chocolate Cherry Swirl shelf. She opened the door, but the shelf was empty. She stared for a moment out of complete incomprehension. The manager stood behind Margaret, anticipating whatever his creative mind could concoct. Margaret shuffled her feet backwards in a poor man’s rendition of the moonwalk, glancing up and down the shelves through the frosted glass, looking for her chocolate-cherry-swirl. She shuffled forward and looked again. Backwards. Forwards. Again and again. It was nowhere to be found, but she felt like she was caught in the rut of a phonograph record, skipping back and forth, looking for the perfect ending to the song but never finding it. Her father had always listened to phonograph records.
Finally, the store manager approached Margaret, as a small army of shoppers began to gather at the sight of her ice cream ritualistic dance.
“Excuse me, ma’am? Can I help you find something?”
Margaret stopped her shuffling and rocked her head up and down for a minute.
“Chocolate-cherry-swirl.”
“Are you looking for Josten’s Chocolate Cherry Swirl?”
“Yes. Must be chocolate-cherry-swirl.”
“Well, I’m sorry, ma’am. Josten’s went bankrupt about two weeks ago. There is no more stock available.”
“Must have chocolate-cherry-swirl.”
“I’m sorry. There is none.”
Margaret leaned her head against the glass door. The bill of her red cap flipped up, causing it to plop onto the floor.
“Ma’am?”
Margaret thought of the twins, who would be so disappointed.
“Ma’am? We have lots of other kinds of ice cream.”
Daddy would bring it home to her every Friday night when she was a girl. “Jostens,” he would say, “is like a little bit of magic. It’s always there to cheer you up.” She lifted her head, turned around, and started to walk home. She had moved only a few steps when the manager called from behind.
“Ma’am. Your red cap.”
“Red Hat.”
“Yes, red hat,” he confirmed with a strange twist of his neck, realizing that there was a whole lot about this woman he would never understand.
She put the cap back on her head and walked down aisle three, glancing right and left at the foodstuff. She stopped at the bean section and grabbed two cans—the only kind she ever bought—then put two loaves of bread from the aisle end-rack under her arm and checked out without incident. As soon as she exited the building, she started again in full sprint, two white plastic bags whirling at her side.
Five minutes later, she stood outside the door of the Johnsons’ apartment, nervously shaking the two white bags up and down. She knocked softly and panted heavily. Seconds later, the door opened and Pam stood in the doorway with a surprised but happy look on her face.
“Ms. Pritcher. Hi. Do you want to see my Mom?”
“Story.”
“Oh really, you want to tell the story? Come in. Come in.”
Margaret followed Pam into the kitchen. Someone was vacuuming down the hallway straight ahead.
“Mom! Ms. Pritcher is here! She is going to tell us a story, all right?” she asked, turning back to Margaret. “She’s right back there. Why don’t you go say ‘hello’ to her, and I’ll go get Sam. She’s over in our bedroom.”
Margaret walked immediately behind Pam, in her exact tracks, following her into the bedroom.
“Sam, Ms. Pritcher is here.”
“I can see that.”
Pam turned around and looked surprised to see Margaret directly behind her.
“Wow, that was fast. So it was okay with my Mom?”
“I brought food.”
She held out the plastic grocery bags, and Sam jumped up to snatch them from her hand.
“Thanks!” she said, reaching deep-down inside one, pulling out a can. “Beans,” she said with a distinct flair of disappointment.
“Beans,” Margaret repeated.
“Oh,” said Pam with a puzzled look on her face as she glanced in the other bag. “And bread.”
“Bread and beans,” repeated Sam. “Oh, that’s interesting.”
“Yes, Sam was just saying how she hasn’t had any beans lately,” added Pam, hoping not to offend their rare guest. “Please, sit down.”
Margaret sat on the edge of Pam’s bed, and the twins huddled together on the other one directly across from it.
“Eat,” said Margaret.
The twins nodded obligingly and decided that a slice of white bread would probably be easier to down than a can of cold beans—especially without an opener. They longingly thought about the days of chocolate-cherry-swirl.
“All right,” said Sam, gulping down a bite of dry, processed, white bread. She thought that this must be what it is like to eat in the middle of a desert. “We’re ready.”
“Oh, yes,” said Pam. “The house was on fire and Gwen and Georgia—”
“And Benjamin,” added Sam.
“Yes, they were standing outside watching it burn. Was their mother in the house? What happened? Was it an accident?”
“And they were leaving with another family. What were their names?”
Margaret leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.
* * *
“The Thompsons brought the children back to their house in their buggy. The girls wept the whole way while Benjamin continued to sleep.
When they were finally situated inside the small, modest Thompson home—a home with four children of their own—Mr. Thompson sent their two boys and two girls out to play. The girls took Benjamin off of Gwen’s hands and took him outside to play with Buster, who had followed the children to their new home.
“‘Girls,’ started Mr. Thompson. ‘There is something we need to tell you. Your …” He paused and looked over at his wife. ‘Beatrice, can you tell them?’ He felt like some sort of a coward, but he couldn’t get the words out right, so he shifted the responsibility off on his wife, whom he felt was much better at relating to people.
“‘Girls, what my husband is trying to say is … Perhaps you already feel it in your heart.’
“‘Mother is dead,’ said Georgia plainly with little emotion.
“‘Yes.’
“Gwen broke down again in tears. Georgia hardly blinked.
“‘In the fire?’ asked Georgia.
“‘Yes.’
“‘The bright light.’
“‘What?’
“‘The bright light. I saw the bright light this morning. I thought it meant life, but it meant death.’
“The Thompsons looked puzzled.
“‘Bright light?’ asked Mr. Thompson for clarification.
“‘Oh, it was nothing. Just a silly game we played,’ offered Gwen through the pearl droplets on her cheeks, not wanting to delve into their confusing trip to the top of Harper’s Hill.
“‘Father was right,’ Georgia continued, her heart gripped with fear and sadness, wanting once again to feel his comforting touch on h
er back. She wanted to sit at the table, look him in the eyes, jump into his arms, and laugh and tumble with him in the tall prairie grasses. But he was gone, and now so was their mother.
“‘I thought Mother went to town with you today?’ asked Gwen.
“‘Not exactly. She came over here, and I was able to share some supplies with her, so we wouldn’t have to go the whole way to town. We brought her home a couple hours later after we had talked for a while.’
“‘What started the fire? Why couldn’t she get out?’ pressed Gwen.
“‘Maybe she didn’t want to,’ said Georgia with great resignation in her voice.
“‘Georgia, why would you say such a thing?’ Gwen snapped, giving her a horrified look.
“‘Let’s not think about those things today,’ said Mrs. Thompson.
“The silence encompassed the room for a moment, and each individual measured their attempts to break through eerie stillness but couldn’t decide on a method. Finally, in desperation, Gwen spoke up.
“‘What will become of us?’
“‘This afternoon I’m going into town to get the reverend and some other men to help go through the house. We want to make sure your mother gets a proper burial. Then we’ll have to see what we can do with you kids,’ spoke up Mr. Thompson.
“‘Your mother said she didn’t know where your father was,’ said Mrs. Thompson.
“Georgia leaned forward, ready to burst out about the hilltop encounter, but Gwen quickly put a hand on her chest to squelch any thoughts of revealing what would have become nothing but an egregious lie in the eyes of most people.”
* * *
Margaret stopped for a moment but kept her head back against the wall with her eyes closed. Sam and Pam remained enraptured in the story. Sam nibbled on her second piece of white bread, and Pam kept rhythmically rolling a can of beans back and forth on the comforter. They both looked up at Margaret, anticipating more. The vacuum could now be heard out in the main living room area, a short distance down the hall from the girls’ room.
“Ms. Pritcher,” asked Sam. “Is their father dead, too?”
“Sam, I don’t think the story is over yet. We’re not supposed to know at this point.”
“But it’s driving me crazy. If I had the book right now, I’d flip to the last page and discover its ending.”
Margaret, too, wanted to know the ending.
“You’ve always been so impatient about everything.”
“And you’re so boring. Don’t you ever wonder about anything?”
“I wonder about you.”
“Besides me,” said Sam.
“I suppose not,” Pam said turning away bitterly.
“Can we hear more of the story?” asked Sam.
Margaret had a slight smirk on her face. She enjoyed the girls’ bantering. It made her feel like she had two friends, and if not that, it made her feel like she was privy to the internal bickering of a relationship built on love. It had a familiar ring to it, and it made her long for the past.
* * *
“Two days passed. The twins and Benjamin had spent two nights crammed in the Thompson’s back room with the two Thompson girls. Mrs. Thompson took Benjamin half the time in order to relieve Gwen of such a heavy burden for a young girl. Georgia, after all, was not too much of a help. She ached emotionally every minute of the day, while Gwen had no time for such human attributes in the midst of a crisis.
“At five o’clock in the afternoon on the second day after the fire, the Thompsons packed all of their children and orphaned guests into the wagon and made the ominous trip back to the burnt homestead. Several local men had fashioned a rough wooden coffin, dug a burial plot behind the house, and lowered the pine box into its final resting place. About twenty people, including the reverend from River’s End who was asked to give the eulogy, were in attendance.
“They stood in a semi-circle, Gwen and Georgia in the middle, directly facing the charred remnants of their childhood. Benjamin squirmed mercilessly in Gwen’s arms until Mrs. Thompson came and took him from her. Gwen cried for only the second time since the fire. Georgia stared on in disbelief, refusing to believe that their mother was gone. And what of their father? He had come to comfort them. Or did he? Was she just imagining things? What of the light? Was it merely a light that illuminated just enough to create evil shadows?
“The air smelled like charred wood. Its pungency reminded Georgia of the days with mother and father sitting by the fireplace, laughing, and eating biscuits with their Father, who made their mother upset by purposely teasing the dog with a leftover piece of bacon.
“Why did father leave? she thought. Surely, he knew of his wife’s despondency. She could barely take care of Benjamin and depended so much on Gwen. Georgia knew that Gwen was a very good young mother. She had to be for Benjamin’s sake. Oh, where would we be without Gwen? thought Georgia, who at that moment thought of herself as an evil, selfish person. The reverend’s words kept fading in and out. The words ‘hope’, ‘everlasting life’, and ‘love’ had little comfort for Georgia. She had been in a trance for about two minutes before she realized that the eulogy was over and the neighbors had started to shovel the dirt onto the coffin.
“After the service, the girls sat silently for about an hour on the other side of the barn. Buster tried to get the girls to play a familiar game of roll and tumble, but they were contended to remain silent and scratch his back instead. After the grave was filled and marked with a white wooden cross, the Thompsons came to talk with the girls.
“‘Where’s Benjamin?’ asked Gwen.
“‘He’s with Celia. We wanted to talk with you, girls,’ said Mrs. Thompson, who was very kind but clearly worn out with four children of her own.
“‘Girls,’ started Mr. Thompson. ‘We have to decide what will happen to you.’
“‘What do you mean?’ asked Georgia, knowing full well what he meant.
“‘This has been a terrible tragedy. A terrible accident that I feel so horrible about. You poor children,’ said Mrs. Thompson, with tears of sympathy streaming down her face. ‘But I’m afraid you cannot stay with us. We just do not have room.’
“‘And it’s been a very rough year. Dry. The crops are doing poorly. We already have four children and are just not equipped to take care of more. I wish we could. I really do,’ added Mr. Thompson, who was a decent man.
“‘But we’re not alone. We still have father,’ Georgia piped up quickly.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thompson glanced at each other in that sorrowful way that tells one to expect the worst.
“‘My dear children. Your mother received a letter from a Mr. Perry from St. Louis just three days ago. It informed her that your father had drowned in a boating accident when a steamer hit a fishing vessel. I’m so sorry, my children.’
“Georgia looked at Gwen, shaking her head sternly.
“‘No! It’s a lie!’
“‘That can’t be true,’ concurred Gwen.
“‘It’s true. Your mother was so upset that …’
“Georgia stood up and walked over to Mr. Thompson.
“‘I saw father. On Harper’s Hill. He said the light was not for him or for Benjamin. And when we saw Mother’s death, we knew he was right.’
“‘What on earth are you talking about, child?’ inquired Mrs. Thompson.
“‘He came to us. He put his hands on our shoulders. He told us to be brave.’
“‘Gwen, what is your sister saying?’ asked Mrs. Thompson, looking at her husband in bewilderment.
“‘It’s true. I didn’t see Father, not like Georgia. But I did hear his voice when Benjamin was hurt. And I felt his presence. I know that he came for us. So it can’t be true, it just can’t.’
“‘Girls,’ Mr. Thompson spoke up firmly. ‘We cannot afford to talk about such fantastical tales. Not at this time. Not now. Your mother is dead, and your father is not coming back.’
“Mrs. Thompson reached over to touch her husband’s sleev
e, wanting him to stop.
“‘Girls, we love you and want what is best for you. That is why we’re going to be taking you over to River’s End tomorrow. We’ve been in contact with a Mrs. Chesterway who runs the River’s Orphanage. She is a delightful woman; caring, loving, but firm—as I suppose she needs to be. She will be taking you in for the time being until the magistrate can determine property rights and possessions and all of those things. Perhaps you will be lucky enough to find a family who will take you all in. I’m sorry, but that’s the best we could do for you.’
“A hushed calm came across the faces of the twins. An unbearable burning ripped through Georgia’s chest, which ached and turned and twisted beyond recognition. She stood up and screamed with all her might.
“‘Father!’”
* * *
Margaret yelled out the word as if trying to get the attention of someone a football field away. The girls jolted back in their beds, and in rushed Mrs. Johnson, vacuum utensil hand, drawn upwards as if a weapon, ready to strike.
As she entered the room abruptly, it startled the girls, who screamed and shook the normally pensive Margaret into yelping loudly. When the cacophony of high-pitched shrieks came to a halt, the exasperated Mrs. Johnson looked accusingly at Margaret.
“Margaret! What’s going on here? Why are you here? Girls, are you all right?”
“Yes, Mom. We’re fine.”
“Of course we’re all right,” added Pam. “Why are you so surprised? You knew Ms. Pritcher was here.”
“I did not know Ms. Pritcher was here. Margaret, I don’t know what has gotten into you, but you cannot be with my children alone. Is that clear? Never!”
“Mom!” pleaded Sam. “She was just trying to tell us the end of the story.”
“I don’t care what she was trying to do,” yelled Mrs. Johnson, whose raised voice was very much out of character for her. “Margaret, leave at once. You’re not welcome here.”
“Mom!”
“Mom! Why are you treating her this way?”
“Sam, go to your room!”
“I’m in my room!”
“Well, stay here! Margaret! Out!”
The Recluse Storyteller Page 13
