Red Is for Remembrance

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  In the kitchen, the female campers prepare the evening meal—chicken drumsticks, pickled beets, and mashed potatoes. There are candles and lanterns placed on the table and countertops for extra light, and the fireplace is blazing for added warmth. Shell stands in front of it, rubbing his palms together, feeling the heat of the fire against his face.

  “Hungry?” Daisy asks him.

  Shell nods, his stomach growling from the mere smell of the cooking. He glances over at the stove where Daisy checks the doneness of a potato with her fork. Though the cabins themselves are pretty primitive, they do have some amenities, like heat and electricity supplied by a generator, and a well for water. Still, they conserve whenever they can so as not to be wasteful.

  Shell jumps suddenly, feeling a tap on his shoulder. He whirls around to find Clay right behind him.

  “Sorry,” Clay says. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Do you have a second? We need to talk.”

  Shell nods, following Clay into the living room area, just behind the kitchen. Clay takes a seat on the thick, velvety plum-purple carpet Rain brought back from the trading field last month; it’s a perfectly good oriental piece with barely any wear and no stains to speak of. She apparently traded it for a pair of aquamarine earrings and a handmade rolling pin that Mason crafted himself.

  “We’re going out tonight,” Clay says.

  “Where?” Shell asks.

  Instead of answering, Clay gestures for Shell to have a seat. Shell surveys the room for his options—a patched-up beanbag chair, an iron park bench, and on the rug opposite Clay. He opts for the bench, figuring that, from the graveness of Clay’s present demeanor, he could use the extra stability.

  “The only reason I’m telling you ahead of time is because I don’t want you to become alarmed right in the midst of things and upset the other campers; I need them on my side tonight.”

  “How would I upset them?” Shell asks. He reaches into his pocket to hold the rock he scratched earlier, the one with the pentacle. He grips it hard, soaking up the natural energy, willing inner peace.

  “You’re still fairly new here,” Clay explains. “You’re still learning about our community . . . growing into our world of peace.” He pauses a moment to admire the crackling of the fire and the orange glow of the logs.

  “I’m learning every day,” Shell says, hoping to reassure Clay of whatever reservations he may have about him.

  “Of course you are.” Clay turns back to smile at him. “And you’re doing a good job of it. It’s just, even though you’ve only been here a handful of months, I’ve noticed that you carry a lot of influence here. Campers are drawn to you. Take Lily, for instance.”

  Shell clamps the rock even harder, having feared this very moment. “What about her?”

  “I’m curious about your intentions for her.”

  “I like Lily,” Shell says, swallowing hard.

  “A lot?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “If it’s the truth, it isn’t,” Clay says. “You should never be afraid of the truth.”

  “It is the truth,” Shell says.

  Clay nods, a dead stare to his eyes. “That’s what I thought.” He clears his throat and looks away. “I just wanted to be sure. And I wanted to tell you about tonight. Lily will be there and I know she’s fond of you. I’d hate for you to influence her in a way that might keep us from our peaceful mission. Understand?”

  “I’m not sure,” Shell says, shaking his head, completely confused. “Would you prefer it if I didn’t go?”

  “Of course not. You of all people need to be there. How else will you learn our peaceful ways?” Clay stands, looking back at Shell. “You’re going to do very well here. I’m sure of it.”

  • • •

  Late that night, Clay, Lily, Brick, Shell, and Daisy cram themselves into the community car, a creamy beige Grand Marquis with scratches all over the hood and a Cape Cod bumper sticker on the rear with a giant smiling crab. Dressed in dark clothing, from knitted hats to winter gloves and boots, the group is well equipped with duffel bags, flashlights, and tools for breaking and entering.

  Clay is driving. He waves to the campers on patrol duty—those who’ve been assigned to stay up and watch over the camp tonight—and then pulls out into the driveway.

  “Is the camp patrolled every night?” Shell asks Brick, wondering if they’re carrying weapons.

  Brick nods. “Just in case.”

  “In case what?” Shell whispers.

  But Brick doesn’t answer Shell’s question. He just continues to eyeball Clay in the rearview mirror.

  Frustrated by the silence and a bit uncomfortable with the tense energy in the car, Shell stares out the window the whole way, trying his best to relax, wondering what the patrolling is all about. How would anyone even find their place? And what would they possibly want to take from it? It’s not as though they’re rich with possessions.

  They pass by the honey farm where the owners—an old German couple, according to Brick—raise bees and sell candles. Shell memorizes street signs they pass, trying to get a firmer idea of where he is. It’s a good ten minutes before he’s able to see much more than barren trees and vacant streets.

  “There’s the Bargo Tower,” Brick says, pointing out the window.

  They come to a stop light at the end of the street. There’s a tall brick tower standing high atop a hill, just to the right of them. Shell has to scrunch down in his seat and look up to appreciate its height.

  “You can see the whole cape from the top,” Brick says.

  Shell nods, making the mental note, noticing the Brutus town sign that sits at the base of the hill.

  They drive for another half hour at least, passing through two more towns, and finally cruising through a residential area. Clay slows the car and clicks off the headlights. “The family who lives at this house is away all week,” he says, steering the car down a long, narrow road. He orders the campers to open their doors slightly, so as not attract attention or make any noise, and then he pulls up in front of a medium-sized cottage set a good distance away from the other houses on the street.

  “How do you know?” Shell asks, noticing how the interior car light fails to go on despite the open doors—as though someone removed the bulb.

  “I’ve been watching it.” Clay points toward the front of the house. “Check it out—shades drawn down, curtains closed, lights turned off, and a collection of rolled-up newspapers strewn about the stairs. They haven’t been around since Monday.”

  “Let’s go!” Daisy cheers, pulling her ski mask down over her face.

  The tension suddenly melted, the others follow suit with their masks—all except Shell.

  “Come on,” Lily coaxes him. “It’ll be fun. We’re giving this family an opportunity to share with us. It’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  Shell wants to believe her, but it still doesn’t make sense to him. Maybe this family doesn’t have the resources to give. Maybe they just barely make ends meet.

  “Look at the exterior of the house,” Clay says, regarding Shell. “It’s mint. The walkway and driveway have been plowed. No paint chipping or peeling to speak of. No rot. Holiday wreath on the door. These people have it good.”

  But how can Clay tell all that in the darkness? There’s a solitary street lamp, but it’s several houses away.

  “I don’t think I want to go,” Shell says, finally, reminded of his first break-in at the old couple’s house—the fear he felt in the pit of his stomach. “Is it okay if I wait here?”

  “No,” Clay snaps. “It isn’t okay.”

  “It was okay before,” Shell ventures, more confused.

  “Before, you were willing to try. You went into the house. It wasn’t a blind decision. Now, you’re refusing to participate before eve
n stepping a foot inside. How are you going to learn our peaceful ways if you block yourself off from what we’re trying to teach you?”

  Shell looks to Brick for reassurance. “You can stick with me,” Brick says.

  “And me!” Lily beams. She rests her head on his shoulder and bats her eyes up at him from behind the mask.

  “Okay,” Shell says, comforted by the feel of Lily’s head against his shoulder. “I’ll go.”

  “That’s all we ask.” Clay smiles, clicking the ignition off, and reminds everybody to leave the car doors slightly ajar.

  They sneak around the side of the house to the back, where it’s even darker. Using his flashlight, Clay looks around the door for a key, checking under the doormat and running his fingers atop the door ledge.

  “Found it,” Daisy whispers, holding the key out for show. Apparently it’d been hidden in the planter at the foot of the stairs.

  Clay plucks it out of her hand, unlocks the door, and the group enters, locking the door back up behind them. “Okay,” Clay says. “You know the rules—be quick, be selective, and leave things as you found them. Sometimes these people are so prepared to give, they don’t even notice when something’s missing.”

  While Daisy and Lily scamper off down the hall and Clay remains in the kitchen area, Shell sticks close to Brick. They begin in the family room. Brick unzips his duffel bag and disconnects the family’s DVD player, as though he’s an old pro. “You don’t have to take anything if you don’t feel comfortable,” Brick whispers. “I’ll just say you helped me with this stuff.” He checks the drawers, loading his bag with a handful of DVDs, a remote control, and a portable CD player.

  A few moments later, Lily enters the room, duffel bag already full. “Come on,” she whispers to Shell, dropping her bag, taking his hand, and leading him down the hallway, into what appears to be the master bedroom. She pulls him into a walk-in closet, clicks on the light, and closes the door. “They must be super rich,” she says, “like movie stars.” She pulls off her ski mask and grabs a mink stole from the hanger. She slips it around her shoulders, adding a matching mink hat and a beaded bag with rhinestone detail to enhance the look. “How do I look?”

  Shell has to admit that she couldn’t look more beautiful. It isn’t the clothes per se; it’s the way she wears them and how happy she is.

  Lily snags a man’s scarf from a hanger, a charcoal-gray one with black stitching. She pulls off Shell’s ski mask, drapes the scarf around his neck and pulls him close, staring into his silvery blue eyes and running her fingers through his short dark hair. “I meant what I said before, you know,” she says. “I love you . . . with all my heart.” With that, she kisses him—a long, soft kiss that reminds him of warm honey. She smells like honey, too, like cinnamon French toast and hot maple syrup. Shell wonders when was the last time he’s tasted something so wonderful.

  “We’re leaving,” Daisy says, knocking on the door.

  Lily breaks the embrace and her smile wilts. “I shouldn’t take this stuff, should I?” she says, referring to the clothing. “It would be vain to keep such beautiful things, and I don’t have the heart to sell them.”

  “I guess,” Shell says.

  “But maybe they wouldn’t notice . . . ”

  “How about you just take one thing,” Shell suggests, wanting more than anything to see her happy again, to see that glow about her.

  Lily smiles and kisses him once more. “You’re such a beautiful soul,” she says, “like no one I’ve ever met.” She carefully returns the stole and purse to their hangers, but saves the hat for herself, stuffing it into her pocket. “I want you to have this as well,” she says, snagging the wool scarf from around his neck. She crams it into his pocket and the two exit the closet, joining the others out in the kitchen, holding hands and blushing with happiness.

  After my meeting with President Wallace, I come straight back to the dorm and grab my bowlful of lavender pellets. I rub the individual bits between the tips of my fingers, the sweet herbal scent rising up, helping to calm me a little.

  But it isn’t enough. I unclasp the amulet necklace from around my neck. It’s a tiny emerald-green bottle made out of sea glass and threaded through a silver chain. My mother bought it for me on my last birthday. I pop its tiny cork and spill a few droplets of lavender oil onto my finger. I dab at the pulse points on my neck, willing the homey scent to ground me even a little.

  Both Amber and Janie have left notes for me. Janie is at a faith club meeting and Amber went to boy shop. I crumple the notes up, imagining Amber traipsing around from floor to floor, sporting a push-up bra and some skimpy form of faux animal skin to cover her fanny, searching for some serious male attention.

  And why not? Isn’t that what college is supposed to be about? Having fun, meeting new people, hooking up with random hotties, and partying from late Thursday night until early Sunday morning?

  But instead I’m here. I pop one of my tranquilizers and lay back in bed, wanting more than anything to fall asleep, to dream about water again—to see if Jacob will make an appearance in my dreams.

  I spend the next few days in bed, getting up only to raid the candy and soda machines in the dorm room lobby, to go to the bathroom, pop more pills, and defend myself from Amber’s wrath. But I don’t dream—not even a little.

  “You smell!” Amber shouts on day four of my bed binge. “When was the last time you bathed?”

  I respond by pulling a stick of rosewood incense from my drawer. I light it, waving the smoke toward her side of the room. “Better?”

  “Janie doesn’t even want to sleep here,” she says. “Your stench is funking up her brain even more. She says she’s been getting headaches all week because of you.”

  I roll over in bed, my back facing her, and tug the blankets up over my head.

  “Don’t think you’re gonna skip your classes again,” she says, tug-of-war-pulling the covers from me. “It’s 9 AM—don’t you have a class at 10?”

  I shrug.

  “Perfect. Just enough time to get that bubble butt of yours out of bed, into the shower, and into some clean clothes. You can snatch one of Janie’s Gogurts on the way out; we’ll tell her one of the dorm rats ate it.”

  “Maybe tomorrow.” I sigh. “I want to sleep.”

  “Are you kidding? You’ve been coma-queen for days.”

  “Leave me alone,” I say.

  “You really want to go back home?” she asks, winning the tug-of-war fight over my covers. “Because that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

  I reach for the bottle of tranquilizers stashed under my pillow, noticing that I’ve taken them all, that the bottle is empty. A whole month’s worth used up in a handful of days. I won’t be able to call in a new prescription for another couple of weeks.

  “Well?” she asks.

  “I already have a mother, thanks.”

  “Have you talked to her lately? Does she know you’re funking up your chances here, that you’re going to flunk out of college without having ever made it to class? I mean, you’re starting to make me look good.” Amber comes and sits on the corner of my bed. “Is that why the president wanted to see you the other day?”

  I shake my head and move to sit up. “He wants me to help his daughter.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  I let out a sigh and tell her about his manipulative little plan—how he plotted to get me here and that’s why I got the scholarship. “I should have known something was up,” I say. “Nobody with high school grades like mine gets into a place like this.”

  “I did,” Amber perks.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, stopping myself from mentioning that Dr. Wallace brought her name up in our conversation, that he implied he knew we were good friends, and that’s why she got in.

  “So what’s the story
with his daughter?”

  “Apparently she’s having nightmares.”

  “Nightmares like yours—dead bodies, pools of blood, little girls chanting in freakish rhyme . . . ?”

  I nod.

  “Sucks for her,” Amber says. She leans over to reach for the mini-fridge, opening the door wide to survey all of Janie’s prized goodies. She thieves a Popsicle from the freezer section and tears off the paper, popping the icy end into her mouth and sucking at the bright cherry redness. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, are you going to help her?”

  I snatch the covers from the foot of the bed and drag them back up to my chin. “I can barely even get out of bed.”

  “Can barely or won’t ever?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I snap.

  “Don’t get me wrong.” She points the Popsicle for emphasis. “I mean, I love you like a sister, and I know this is going to sound much bitchier than I mean it to, but you’re even more deflated now than you were this summer—like Spidey over there the morning after a good night.” She gestures to the blow-up doll on her bed and then holds her Popsicle out to me for a lick. “Sugar high?”

  “No, thanks,” I say, noticing how her teeth and tongue have turned fireball red.

  “Why don’t you give Dr. Atwood a call?” she suggests. “Aren’t you supposed to be continuing your therapy?”

  “Maybe I don’t feel like listening to the tone of her disappointed voice.”

  Amber sighs. “She’s not the only one who’s disappointed, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugs.

  “Spill it,” I insist.

  “It’s just . . . you used to be my rock, Stacey, my hero—the bravest person I knew. It didn’t matter what was going on in your life or how stressed out you got . . . you still saved the day. I mean, I know you have a lot to deal with right now and I know it takes time, it’s just . . . instead of moving forward even a little, I feel like you’re slipping back.”