by K. M. Malloy
“I’m so sorry, darlings,” Mrs. Jacobs said quietly as she wiped her hands on her dress. “I don’t know what came over me. Must be this dreadful weather giving me the crankies. My apologies, I didn’t mean it.”
“It’s okay,” Aire said, her shaking hands picking up the pen to finish filling out the order form. “I’m sure it’s just the weather, that’s all.”
“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Jacobs said, shaking her head.
“It’s okay,” Aire repeated. She scrawled her signature on the order form, struggling to breathe. It felt like the air had gone out of the room. She’s seen this happen to other people before, but never thought it would happen to Mrs. Jacobs. Never.
“Mitch,” Mrs. Jacobs said, her voice just above a whisper. “I’ll give you my credits for the pipe. I won’t be needing them anymore.”
“Really?” Mitch said, a smile spreading across his face to reveal a missing incisor. “You mean it?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Jacobs nodded, her eyes never leaving the counter.
“Oh thank you,” he said. “Thank you so much!”
Aire reached out to squeeze the woman’s hand, pursing her lips together to keep them from quivering. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Jacobs nodded again. “The pipe and strings will be here in a week or two. Good day,” she said, and turned to disappear into the back room.
“Come on, Mitch,” Aire said, wiping a knuckle under her glistening eyes. The boy followed as she yanked the door of the office open and returned to the cold.
Her hands were shoved in her pockets as she barreled down Bourbon Street, her eyes focused on the ground in front of her. She leapt over potholes and ignored the beginnings of sprinkles starting to fall, no longer caring if the rain drenched her. Mitch jogged along beside her, twirling in circles and bragging over his good fortune that Mrs. Jacobs had given him the credits he needed. She drowned out his chattering about his new pipe and the upcoming races. They’d reached Buffalo Trail, their halfway point between the business district and their house before his sister’s silence finally became too much for him.
“Hey, Aire?” he said, stomping in a mud puddle in the unpaved road. A splash of dirty brown water and slush landed with a goopy splat on the side of her new jeans. Aire didn’t notice, nor would she have cared if she did.
“Yeah?”
“Is Mrs. Jacobs going to get recruited now that she screamed at us?”
Aire shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, wishing she still had her long bangs to hide her face. “Probably.”
“That stinks,” Mitch said. “She was a nice lady.”
“Yeah, she was,” Aire said, struggling to hold down the catch in her throat.
“Oh well,” the boy said, stomping into another puddle. “The Army is a good thing. It keeps us safe and we should be happy to make those sacrifices. Mrs. Jacobs will make all the soldiers cookies and they’ll be so happy.”
“Yeah,” Aire said, scrunching the tears from her eyes and wishing the sky would shed its tears on her to hide her own. “Jump with joy happy.”
***
Sounds of destruction could be heard from the little house on the corner of Buffalo Trail, but no lights in the neighboring houses were on. No one would come. It was Mrs. Jacobs’s time to go, and no one would be sad for it except one teenage girl.
The whirlwind blond ripped through her home like a rampant tornado, spinning from room to room smashing picture frames and trinkets, working her way from her bedroom where she had awoken in a burning rage, to her living room, and finally into her kitchen. She picked up the glass baking pan that she had used hundreds of times to makes brownies for the neighborhood children who frequented her house, and raised it high over her head.
“Baking! Baking! Baking! Baking all the time no more!” She heaved the dish into the refrigerator, smashing it to sharp pieces.
“Baking!” she screamed as she took coffee cups out of the cabinet one by one and smashed them onto the floor.
“Baking!” she screamed as she smashed her beloved flowered plates.
“Baking!” she screamed as she hurled her mother’s hand painted china at the wall.
“Ba-“
She whirled around when she heard a sharp hiss sound from behind her. Her cat Peanut was on top of the fridge, his tail bushed out and his eyes wide and glossy with fear.
“I’ll bake you!”
Mrs. Jacobs lunged across the pine floor, the broken glass cutting at her feet. Her hands shot out for Peanut. The cat leapt from the fridge onto the counter, and dashed across the floor.
“Come back here!” she screamed as the cat scrambled across the living room and disappeared into the bedroom. She hurried behind him and slammed the door.
“Baking Peanut.”
She turned on the light and looked around the small room.
“Baking,” she cooed, her pupils huge and empty. She tiptoed across the room and pulled one of the cases off the pillow.
“Where would I be if I was baking? Baking. Baking.”
The closet.
Mrs. Jacobs was almost soundless as she crept towards the walk-in closet. The light switch made a soft click as she turned it on and went inside, closing the door behind her.
Peanut was crouched in the corner behind a stack of shoe boxes, hissing and spitting as she came towards him, pillowcase in hand.
“Baking Peanut,” she whispered. “Baking. Baking.”
Peanut let out a warning mewl and lashed out at the woman with his claws as she reached for him, spreading three red lines in a pretty bracelet over her wrist. She snatched her hand back at the fresh, stinging pain.
“Baking!” she screamed, and lurched forward, this time managing to grab the cat by the scruff. Peanut hissed and spat and bit and scratched as Mrs. Jacobs wrestled to shove him into the pillowcase. Her face and arms were a bloody mess when she finally tied the case into a knot to lock him in, her hair wild as she stood up.
“Baking,” she whispered as she held the wriggling pillowcase in her hand. She was still for a moment, whispering the same word over and over again in the closet as though it were some weird meditation chant.
Four tiny claws dug through the case. Mrs. Jacobs looked down to see a flash of tan paw poking its way through the cloth.
“Baking!”
She grabbed the end of the pillowcase with both hands and swung it like a bat into the closet door. It hit with a sick crunch, a yowl of pain erupting from within it.
“Baking!”
She swung the case again and again into the door like a construction worker tearing down a wall with a sledgehammer as she smashed the pillowcase against the wall until the yowling stopped and the fabric became decorated in splotchy deep red patterns.
“Baking.”
She opened the door and went into the kitchen, not feeling the fresh wounds on her feet or hearing the crunching below them as she walked across the broken glass. She put the reddening pillowcase onto the counter and turned on the oven.
“Baking.”
Rummaging through the bottom cupboard, she found the metal baking pan she used for birthday cakes. She greased the pan with a thick layer of olive oil, and was about to untie the now leaking pillowcase when she heard a crash from the foyer. Dropping the case, she grabbed the metal pan and raised it high over her head as three black figures burst into the room. They had thick vests over their chests, and black masks to cover their faces.
“Baking!”
Mrs. Jacobs bolted towards the three faceless figures, hell bent on smashing the heavy pan over their heads. One raised a hand at shoulder level and pointed something she’d never seen before directly at her throat. There was a loud pop, and Mrs. Jacobs dropped to the floor, the baking pan sending loud clatters through the house as it skittered across the kitchen.
One of the black figures took off a glove and knelt beside her. It pressed its fingers to her neck, looked at the other two, and nodded. Together the three of them lifted the woman’s body,
and carried her away in the night.
Chapter Two
Tuesday March 9, 2010
Population: 406
Aire stirred her scrambled eggs around her plate, absently mashing at them with her fork. Mitch rolled a plastic motorcycle across the table, his prize from yesterday’s cereal box. Light filtering in from the triple windows surrounding the breakfast nook bathed the table in a creamy yellow hue. Warmth from the sun’s rays heated her shoulders, the sky outside having forgotten all about yesterday’s storm. Her father cracked open his coveted copy off the Daily Gazette. She wondered what he would do if he went a day without reading the paper. Probably run into doors and comb his hair with a toothbrush, her mother always said.
“Well would you look at that,” her father said, half brushing, half slapping the front page with his palm. “Mayor Jenkins issued a new law that any couple under twenty-five will only be able to obtain a permit to have one child. One child.”
“That’s wonderful news,” her mother said. She placed the last four pieces of popping bacon from the skillet onto the tray in the center of their round dining table. “That means John’s Town is doing very well.”
“I’ll say,” her father said with a smile. He took a hesitant sip from his steaming coffee mug and let out a grunt, his tongue flicking over his burnt lips.
“In my mother’s time you could get a permit for three kids,” her mother said as she finished refilling Mitch and Aire’s glasses with orange juice. She sat down to her own lukewarm breakfast, her family’s half gone already, and folded a napkin over her knees. “Of course there weren’t very many people in John’s Town then. What was it, Bill? Like just over a hundred, or something?”
“Pretty close,” Bill said, turning to page two of the Gazette. “I was surprised they knocked it down to two kids right after we got our permit for civil union. There weren’t many people our parents’s age so I thought for sure they’d keep it at three kids per household.”
“Why not, Dad?” Mitch asked. “Where did the old people go?”
“To the Army of course,” her mother said, tapping salt over her cold eggs. “The United Community was just getting started then. We needed to build up our military to make sure the States didn’t change their mind and overthrow us.”
“Yes siree,” her father gloated. “We sure are quite the town if they’re limiting to one kid. Yes siree.”
“I think it’s wrong to tell people they have to get a permit to have a kid, let alone tell them how many they can have,” Aire said.
The clanking of greedy forks against glass plates ceased. The three of them stared at Aire, their eyes wide. The jays and robins sang behind her in the silence as she rested her chin on her hand, her own eyes never leaving her plate. Her mother cleared her throat.
“It’s necessary to limit the population. Otherwise we wouldn’t have enough resources to support ourselves,” she said. Mitch and her father began stabbing at their eggs and loading them into their mouths.
“Well I don’t like it,” Aire said. “One day I’m going to leave here and find a place that allows people to do whatever they want.”
“Oh, Aire that’s wonderful,” her mother clapped. “I bet they would give you a permit to study at the college in Parker. You could become a baby doctor in that big city hospital.”
“Now, Helen,” her father said, holding up his hand to quiet her mother. “You know it’s next to impossible to get a permit to go to another city in the Community. I bet they don’t even have such a thing. Can you think of anyone who’s gotten one? Nope, no siree, you can’t. And why would you want to leave John’s Town anyway? It’s perfect here. We have everything we need and there’s no reason to leave.”
Aire could feel it coming on the more her father spoke, that hotness that made words shoot out of her mouth before she thought about what they were. Too many times that hotness had gotten her sent into the principal’s office. Too many times it had gotten her sent to her room without supper. She clenched her fists and took a deep breath to cool it away before the redness colored her cheeks and it took control over her tongue.
“Your father is right,” her mother said. “No one ever needs to leave. Besides, there’s so much you could do here in John’s Town. I’m glad you want to continue with school, but you put too much value in education. You could probably be dating that Culver boy now if you didn’t spend so much time in the library,” Helen said, casting a sideways glance at Aire, who lowered her head at the mention of the boy. “You really don’t need to spend so much time studying. People go to college even if they get C’s.”
“But they don’t go to universities with C’s,” Aire said.
Her father dropped the Gazette into his lap and frowned. “University? What are you talking about?”
Sweat began to seep from her palms. Aire wiped them on her jeans and scooted further back into her chair. “I’ve been thinking,” she said slowly. “I want to go to a real university. You know, one that’s in the States and teaches you things beyond the scope of daily living. Maybe in New York or Massachusetts.”
“The States?” Her mother’s eyebrows raised in a high, horrified arch, her skin growing taunt and pale around her wide eyes. “Oh, Aire, never say anything like that again. Never.”
Her father’s voice was low and stern. It was the voice he used when he found out she had been sent to the principal’s office or when he ordered to her room without supper. “The States are a terrible, terrible, violent place I would never wish anyone to go to. Besides, everything you need to know is right here in John’s Town. We have everything we need and there’s no reason to leave.”
The hotness was rising with full force now. Aire could feel it burning from her cheeks, the intensity of it tingling her nose. Her teeth gritted between her clenching jaws, knuckles white around her fork as she started to mash her toast. “There is nothing for me here and I have every reason to leave,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Now, Aire, that isn’t nice,” her mother said. “You should be thankful we live in such a wonderful place. Please don’t say such unpleasant things.”
It was too late now. The last bit of kindling had been dropped on the red embers, and the hotness roared into a blaze within her. Aire slammed her fork onto her plate, sending bacon and bits of mutilated eggs and toast spewing across the yellow daisy table cloth. “Why? What is going to happen if I don’t stop saying such things? Huh?”
“You’ll get recruited, that’s what will happen,” her father said. “Now calm down and eat your breakfast.”
She slammed her palms down on the table, sending her fork flaying across the kitchen as she lurched up from her chair. “Good. If the Army recruits me at least I’ll finally be able to get out of John’s Town.”
Her feet pounded the linoleum as she stormed out of the kitchen. Hot breath steamed from her lungs as she grabbed her school bag from the stairs and darted through the front door, letting it slam behind her.
She hustled down the street to The Meeting Tree at the end of the block, her eyes never leaving the sidewalk. You will go to the States one day, she told herself. No matter what it takes, you will get out of John’s Town.
She was breathless when she reached the arthritic willow tree at the end of the street, The Meeting Tree, as she and Melissa called it. Melissa’s house was two blocks further south, Aire’s being closer to the school.
Fate, it seemed, had brought them together all those years ago when they had been in second grade. School was almost out for the summer, the weather had been perfect, and neither wanted to spend such a wondrous day locked in a classroom. Each had snuck away from school on their own and had somehow managed to end up playing in that same tree. It was their secret that day of breaking the rules and skipping school that had begun their friendship, and Aire was glad for it since she’d never had many friends.
In the third grade they’d began to meet at the tree on their way to school. Back then she’d thought The Meeting Tree h
ad secret magical powers that could take her anywhere in the world. She’d spend hours in that tree dreaming of all the people it could bring her to meet. Why she could meet people all the way from China if she wished for it hard enough. But that was back then, and the magic had drained from the tree over the years. She knew better now. She would only meet Melissa at The Meeting Tree, and it would not take her to China. It would not take her anywhere.
She closed her eyes as she leaned against the gnarled black trunk and rubbed her temples, taking deep breaths as she willed herself not to cry. A haunting vision clouded across her mind as she imagined what she’d be like in ten years if she had to stay in John’s Town. Her hair would be white before its time. A mushy brain would roll about in her head from lack of mental stimulation. Her ability to speak would vanish and she’d take to collecting cats and screaming guttural nonsense at anyone who stepped on her lawn. She shook her head. No, the Army would get her long before that point. They always got the ones who didn’t lie and pretend they were hunky-dory. Always. A sick feeling shot down her spine.
“Hey,” Melissa called, startling her from the terrifying reverie. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?”
“Sad.”
“I don’t know. Just frustrated I guess,” Aire said, shrugging her shoulders.
“About what?”
“My parents,” she sighed. “They don’t get why I want to go to college.”
Melissa crinkled her nose. “I told you not to tell them about that. I don’t know why you’d want to leave John’s Town either.”
“I know,” Aire said, rubbing a hand over her face. “Let’s not talk about it today.”
“Okay,” Melissa shrugged. “So are you excited for The Moto? I don’t think I can stand to wait another two weeks for it to come. I’m so excited Gary is in the Junior Pros this year.”
