Stork

by Wendy Delsol

Pedro took the hat from my outstretched hand.

  Assistant editor Penny called the room to order and reminded everyone of the Monday deadline for stories. She seemed comfortable in front of the group. I thought that she was the kind of girl people underestimated. “Good work on your profile of Ms. Bryant, by the way, Jessica,” she said. “Who would’ve known she could guess anyone’s age to within twelve months? What a great anecdote. So unusual.”

  After everyone settled into their assignments, Penny took a seat beside me. She opened her notebook and flipped through a few pages. I grabbed her hand.

  “What are these?”

  “Some dress sketches.” She seemed embarrassed. “You know, for the dance.”

  They were all shaded in seafoam green and floor-length.

  “Are you making it?”

  “My amma is helping me.”

  I grimaced. I couldn’t help it.

  “She’s a good seamstress,” Penny said. “And she’s letting me make all the decisions. We’re actually fashioning it out of one of her old dresses.”

  I didn’t cringe this time, though it took everything in me not to. Poor Penny. I could just imagine what one of Old Grim’s dresses looked like. “Which is the final version?”

  She flipped the page, and I studied the drawing. Though it was traditional, I nodded my approval. “You will look stunning.”

  “I just hope I’m still going.”

  “Why wouldn’t you be going?” I asked.

  “My amma was so angry at me last night. She went out for like ten minutes and came back as mad as I’ve ever seen her. Apparently, she’d been looking for that bag of hats we joked around with on Saturday. You’d think I’d stolen a car or robbed a bank, the way she reacted. And she was only gone for a few minutes, so what was the big deal?”

  I thought of the Stork time-bending phenomenon. The way an hour in the dungeon accounted for nothing on the clocks. A pretty clever device should you happen to belong to a clandestine organization. I also realized I’d achieved bronze, silver, and gold in the piss-Grim-off Olympics. My three-part performance included: bronze for conspiracy in the concealment of hats, thus rendering her late to council; silver for taking advantage of her tardiness and rushing through my first vessel recommendation in an effort to avoid her dissenting vote; and the coveted gold for a public accusation of being the Messenger of Death. Somehow I did not see the cover of the Wheaties box in my future.

  Penny drummed her fingers across the notebook. “It’s really weird, but for whatever reason, she doesn’t seem to like you.”

  “Maybe she didn’t like the makeover I gave you.” Penny had been doing a much better job of styling herself, and I’d not seen a single sweater-vest since the night of the Asking Fire.

  “It seems like it’s more than that. She even wanted to know who you were going to the dance with, and when I said it was Jack, she had this weird reaction, like she didn’t approve.”

  “Why would she care who I go to the dance with?” I asked. Was it me? Or was Grim worming her hooked nose into every corner of my life? And why?

  “I don’t know. I’m just going to make sure I don’t set her off again this week.” Penny traced the silhouette of her gown with a finger. “Did you get a new dress?”

  “No.” I probably answered too quickly.

  “You’re still going, right?”

  I took a big breath. “We haven’t really discussed it. And now he’s had these two unexplained absences, so I doubt it.”

  “But has he taken back the invitation?”

  “No. Not formally.”

  “What about your column?” she asked. “You need to be there for the article.”

  Just yesterday, I had pitched her a sort of red-carpet review of Homecoming’s hottest and trendiest looks. “I’ve got a backup plan,” I lied.

  “You have to get a dress.” There was an urgency to Penny’s voice. Like dresses were a commodity more precious around here than balmy temperatures, or decent coffee.

  “I’ve got an old one that will work,” I lied again, but could tell by the way Penny scrutinized me that she wasn’t convinced.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “He won’t let you down.”

  I did worry. Jack was a no-show the entire day.

  At the end of the day, just as I was closing my locker, Wade startled me with his sudden appearance.

  “Boo,” he said in a teasing tone.

  “What do you want, Wade?”

  “To apologize and promise to be nice.”

  “Just leave me alone.”

  “Hope to die,” he said, crossing his fingers over his heart. “Monique said she’d take me back, but only if I change my ways. Make amends.”

  “You’re getting back together?”

  “Trying.”

  I shook my head. “You two have more ups and downs than an elevator.”

  “Do you accept my apology? There never were any pictures.”

  Bastard.

  “Jack’s on my sorry list, too. Haven’t seen him around, though.”

  “Neither have I.”

  Wade looked at me with a funny expression, though I supposed atonement was a strange emotion to him. He took a step back. “Tell you what. I’ll give you some time to think about it. In the meantime, you’ll see I’m a new man.”

  As I walked to the parking lot, I thought about Wade’s claims of being a “new man.” And what had Jack once told me? That shiny and new isn’t always better. Still, with Wade I figured it couldn’t get any worse.

  My dad was waiting for me. He honked and waved and pulled around to the curb. I could tell by the way some of the kids gawked that he was flashy for a dad, as was his car — for a rental.

  “We’re going to meet Hulda at the factory,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes, but asked for directions. It was just a little outside the downtown area. I drove past it often, but had never really taken a good look. Probably because there was a tall line of trees camouflaging the front of the square brick building. It had a decent-size parking lot, even if the pavement was cracked and sagging. Above the gated entrance, a large wrought-iron sign in an old-fashioned scroll said INGA PAPER MILL. We pulled in and parked in one of the spots closest to what looked like a formal entrance.

  My dad took a long look around. He even sniffed with flared nostrils, never a good sign. I did my best to point out the positive. The building itself seemed solid and imposing, and brick was usually a sign of good construction, as it was an expensive building material. My dad had taught me that. He noticed that a few of the windows on the first floor were broken, but I reminded him that was an easy fix. I pointed out that the site was close to the river. A bonus, he countered, to manufacturing in the nineteenth century. I didn’t dare mention the abandoned railroad tracks, though I saw him look at them with disdain. It was definitely going to be a tough sell.

  We stepped into the office. It had a small front section with an old metal desk, presumably for a receptionist. A few chairs lined up along the window functioned as a small waiting area. Two glassed-in offices were positioned behind the reception desk. It was very cold inside. It obviously hadn’t been heated in some time. And now was the time to sniff, as even I had to admit the air had a musty quality to it.

  “Very small,” my dad mumbled.

  One of the office doors opened, and Hulda appeared, though I hadn’t noticed her the first time I had looked through the glass. “Good afternoon,” she said rather formally. She wore the same long gray woolen skirt as she had on every one of our encounters, but with a white blouse, which appeared clean and pressed, and a black tweed jacket, which almost seemed businesslike. She’d made an effort.

  I introduced them, and then Hulda did that commanding thing at which she was so effective. “Follow me.”

  I almost wanted to chuckle when my dad scurried obediently behind her. How did she do that?

  We walked through an unmarked door, down a short hall, and ended up on the floor of a very l
arge warehouse. It was an open space at least three stories high, with large equipment scattered about, and the remnants of a conveyor line. Enormous barn-size doors provided access to what looked like the back of the building, and light flooded the area from a large number of rectangular windows.

  Hulda provided a quick history of the site. The factory was built by her father in 1940 and named after his wife and Hulda’s mother, Inga. Hulda, a fifteen-year-old recent immigrant at the time, remembered the celebration of its opening day. The mill had been nonintegrated, meaning they purchased the wood pulp as dried bale, which was then converted to a slurry and passed through a series of presses, rollers, and driers. The end product, huge rolls of paper, had been newsprint quality. After her father’s death, Hulda had closed the factory, as its old machines had become outdated and the factory too small to compete with the large integrated mills, which produced their own pulp. She seemed proud of her father’s operation, which explained her refusal to sell the site.

  She then took a deep breath and walked, with her hands on her hips, to the center of the space. “So you seek to harness the wind.” She looked at my father gravely. “The wind is an ancient force whose powers are capricious. Think carefully of what we know as airborne — snow and rain, the obvious — but remember, too, plague, pest, and choking dust are carried on the back of an evil tempest.”

  Uh-oh. I was afraid of this. White Witch Hulda and her third eye. My dad gave me a what-have-you-gotten-me-into look.

  “Yet,” Hulda continued, “luck is ferried on the breath of the gods.” Hulda pointed to my father. “So, Gregor, I understand your business partners are in Japan.”

  “My investors, yes.” Funny how my dad’s posture straightened as he spoke to Hulda.

  “There are some important things you must share with your investors. First thing,” Hulda said, stamping her foot on the concrete floor. “Solid bedrock underneath us here. Very stable foundation for a business. No?”

  “Couldn’t hurt.” My dad opened his arms playfully.

  “Also, the bamboo that bends in the wind is stronger than the oak that resists.” Hulda looked at him expectantly. “I speak of change here.”

  “Change can be good, I suppose,” my dad said, but I could tell he was just humoring her.

  “One more thing. Listen carefully. Karma is the turning of the wheel and is very important to the ancient religions of the Orient. Is much like fate, but they believe karma is our will as we swim in the river of our past and present. We cannot change the course of the river, but the strokes of our swim influence our destination. This you must tell your investors.”

  “Uh. I’ll tell them if it comes up,” my dad said.

  Hulda gave him a sharp eye and, again, his shoulders snapped back. I heard the ping. “You bring it up. You tell them at the Inga Paper Mill, and you must use the full name, an old woman told you that karma is the turning of the wheel.” She pointed at him with a crooked finger. “You will see.”

  After that, Hulda cleared us out of the place like yesterday’s newspaper. She walked us back through the reception area and to the front door. Her parting remark was, “I will think about this wind harnessing of yours. I will let you know my decision.”

  My dad and I walked back to the car with our hands dug deep in our pockets. Finally, he turned to me and said, “What was that?”

  What was there to say? “That was Hulda.”

  “And you want me to enter into business with her? She’ll let me know her decision?”

  I got in the car. “I know. I know. She’s a little odd.” And wouldn’t he be surprised to know the extent to which she was odd. Though it seemed to be a lost cause, I persisted. The thought of having my dad around on a regular basis was just too appealing. “Besides all the mumbo-jumbo, what did you think of the site?”

  My dad started the engine. “Babe, there’re abandoned factories all over the place. One’s as good as another. I feel good about Palmdale, but if that falls through, we have a lead on something in the Phoenix area. Minnesota just isn’t in our business plan.” As we pulled out of the parking lot, my dad added, “Besides, I told you earlier. I refuse to set up shop anywhere I can’t get a decent cup of coffee.”

  “Fine,” I muttered.

  He pulled onto Main Street. “Now how about some dinner? Is there anything besides the Kountry Kettle?”

  “Not unless you’re willing to drive,” I said.

  “Unlimited mileage, satellite radio, and GPS. We’re heading south.”

  When I got home that night, my mom was watching the news. There had been an earthquake in the California desert that had been felt all the way to LA and Orange County. I sat down and watched with her for a bit. No fatalities had been reported, but a lot of damage had been done. The news reports showed everything from toppled store shelves to crumbled brick buildings to cracked road surfaces. My mom had always hated earthquakes. I was too young to remember the big Northridge shaker, but it was one of the things she often listed when asked why she left California. And even though she sat chewing her nails as she listened to CNN, I knew this wasn’t the true source of her agitation.

  “Where’s Stanley tonight?”

  “I canceled my date with him.” Her voice faltered a little. “I was feeling kind of tired.”

  “Is everything all right?”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said unconvincingly. “Maybe something I ate, or a touch of the flu.”

  I didn’t press. I didn’t even know if my mom had tested herself yet. “Dad asked me to see if you’d like to go to dinner tomorrow night, the three of us.”

  “I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.”

  My dad made me promise to ask, though even then I hadn’t had high hopes. I looked at my sunken mom. Maybe I had been too hasty, too optimistic. This would change everything for her — her relationship with Stanley, her job, her energy level. I remembered then that she’d had a difficult pregnancy with me. Not that I remembered, of course, but there were stories about concerns for both of us. Remorse nagged at me. “It’s OK. I understand.”

  She must have seen something register in my eyes. She hugged her arms to her sides, balling into something tight. “We’ll see how I feel tomorrow.”

  I took one last look at the TV screen. More reports of earthquake damage were coming in. Fire engines were rushing to the scene of a blaze started by a severed gas line. I walked up the stairs to the sound of sirens.

  On Thursday my mom called in sick, something she rarely ever did. I swallowed a good swig of guilt along with my chocolate milk and toasted bagel.

  My morning didn’t look much better. Jack’s truck wasn’t in the parking lot. I knew this for a fact because I circled it twice. With a sigh of resolve, I pulled into his vacant space. It felt wrong somehow, but also deliciously naughty.

  I kept my head down through the parking lot; my backpack felt like an elephant catching a ride; even my hair hung in my face. I stepped out from between two cars when a truck pulled up alongside me.

  “You parked in my spot.” Jack had his window down and hung his left arm along the side of the door.

  The first thing that went through my head was a little mental cartwheel. He didn’t seem mad. “I didn’t notice your name on it.” I crossed my arms, hoping to still the jitters rocking me back to front.

  “It’s marked,” he said, dipping his head a little farther out the window. “Not with my name so much, but it clearly states: for butt-ugly trucks only.”

  I smiled and pulled keys from my pocket. “You want me to move?” I said, jangling them.

  “I want you to get in.”

  This caught me by surprise. “What for?”

  “I want you to come for a ride.”

  “Skip?”

  “I’m AWOL, so I may as well take a hostage.”

  I looked around guiltily. A couple of kids walked past. They looked at me and then Jack in the truck. If we were going to do this, we’d better do it before we had too many w
itnesses. I jogged around to the passenger side, opened the door, and jumped in. No sooner had the old door groaned shut than Jack was gunning it out of the parking lot.

  I hadn’t even had time to fasten my seat belt. I ended up sliding across the wide bench-style front seat, almost landing in his lap. He steadied me with his right arm protectively.

  “Sorry,” he said. He seemed to hold me like that for a moment or two longer than required, but then pulled his arm away with a kind of resignation. “Buckle up. It’s a bit of a drive.”

  I scooted over to the far side near the window and fastened my belt. We drove in silence for a few minutes. I noticed we were headed north on the main highway out of town.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going? Or is this a real kidnapping?”

  He looked over at me with a kind of half smile. “I’m not going to tell you where we’re going, but I’ll promise you this — you never have to worry about your safety with me.”

  Wow. As far as promises go, that was a whopper. The last thing I remembered promising was to get the clothes from the washer to the dryer. I hadn’t. They were still there. Would probably need to be rewashed at this point. “Will you at least tell me where you’ve been?”

  He drummed his thumb on the steering wheel. “I had to go north for a few days. Let’s just get where we’re going and I promise to explain it — all of it.”

  He turned on the radio. It was a country station. I groaned and turned the knob to an alternative rock station, the alternative rock station. A little grunt came from his side of the car, but he didn’t comment, on that or anything else. It reminded me of being with my afi. The way the two of them settled into silence like an old couch, with room for me.

  The scenery changed from shops to homes to fields to woods on both sides of the highway. We pulled onto a gravel road marked with a faded sign that read ELKHORN LAKE PUBLIC PARKING.

  I swiveled in my seat. “Is this . . . ?”

  “Yes. Are you OK with that?”

  I looked around. Nothing seemed familiar. “Yes. I suppose.” The narrow access road was still wooded, though now the drive was winding and pot-holed. Finally, we pulled into a paved lot with a view over a calm lake. “So this is the place,” I said once we’d parked.