Van Booven 30

Jeff Van BoovenMoon CityDavid tossed his bag beside him, and then stripped out of his suit jacket, letting it fall across the bag. He sat down on the outskirts of the crowd and leaned against a tree. The jeans and dress shirt were a bad idea, he thought, and a haircut to keep the sweat out of his eyes wouldnt have hurt. The last time he wore shorts eluded him, sometime before he started grad school and after he started getting dates, and he wasnt sure if he even owned a pair anymore. It was a tradeoff between confidence and comfort; however, hed been with Hannah some time now and could probably afford to loosen up. Their relationship had not yet reached the point where people pestered him about when they were getting married, but after the several months theyd been together, he considered the relationship approaching seriousness. Hannah sat on the stage, crammed in with the other storytellers under a small picnic canopy, white in order to reflect sunlight. The stage itself could hold ten more canopies and have generous space left over for aisles. She fidgeted with the gingham dress, revealing her more modern boots. David had spent countless hours listening to her complain about how only she had to dress in real period costume. The guys could wear overalls and a flannel pattern shirt and call it good, shed say, and then finish with, Theyd probably throw a fit if they knew these boots were fashionable. David would watch as shed kick her leg in the air to illicit a comment from him. At first he struggled with responses, though managed to avoid ever saying the wrong thing, but had settled into making comments about how they had no room to complain when they bought all their clothes from Bass Pro. David looked beside him, at the black jacket which covered the satchel. His brain focused on the satchel, dull brown, faux leather, more straps than strictly necessary for a messenger bag. Inside hed stashed the e-mail printout; a job offer from a research institute in Chicago. The job wasnt fame or fortune, but David figured part of growing up was realizing fame and fortune werent the important part of success. The job was part of doing something to help humanity, which was what hed set his sights on since graduating from his masters program. Doing something notable, being remembered for helping human progress, would be icing on his cake, but David knew he could live without that so long as he made the attempt and made life better for somebody and Hannah didnt count. He hadnt told Hannah about the job yet, afraid shed be unwilling to jump on his bandwagon with both feet. Printing it out made it seem more real, like a train ticket to his own personal Narnia. He could put the paper in her hands as he explained to her all the benefits of relocating to Chicago, what a great opportunity it would be for both of them to leave behind this small city for a real place on a mapto experience a place mentioned in books and history. In his mind, the skyline, filled with towers reaching towards the heavens was the elsewhere where things happened. Despite the number of times David played through the scenario through his mind, and despite the number of times he envisioned Hannah, leaning across the dinner table, interrupting him to agree to move before he even finished his pitch, ending in passionate lovemaking on the couchit was his imagination after allhe could never bring himself to actually believe it. After all, he would think, the only lovemaking they did happened in the bed room. Verisimilitude was an issue. However, David was running out of time. The company needed an answer by Monday, and he felt he owed Hannah at least all of Sunday to decide. Secretly he hoped it was as easy a decision for her as it was for him; he hadnt a contingency plan if she refused to move. Stay perhaps, but he felt she could as a show of her feelings for him at least give the thought of moving some serious consideration. When the current storyteller, the oldest of the group with the longest beard, finished and hobbled back to his seat, Hannah stood and approached the microphone with far more ease than David figured the dress allowed. Shed always seemed hobbled around him, causing him distress at having to choose between helping her into the car and up stairs and an enlightened response that she didnt need a mans help. Perhaps, he wondered, thered been a reason men preferred women to wear those kinds of clothes back in the days of rough and tough or thoroughly civilized men. Standing in the middle of the semi-circle of old men sitting on folding chairs, Hannah adjusted the microphone. The scene reminded David of a cult gathering mixed with an evangelical prayer event in a football stadium. As Hannah was the last speaker for the day, the crowd started to dissipate. Not a mad rush to the exit, a steady stream of people, a good percent with children in tow or carried over shoulders, made their way up the aisles. There were dinners to be cooked and the stagnant heat that even laying underneath the shade of a large oak had David sweating more than he did on one of his morning runs. Excessive heat made him feel ill and lethargic ever since the time in high school when he ran himself into heat stroke during a cross-country meet; he still finished the race, even if he was nearly last despite being in contention for most of it. David wished he could strip, tossing the grey dress shirt aside, whipping the belt from his jeans and letting the denim fall where he was. The crowd might not even notice, he thought, though, if Hannah did, hed be sleeping on the couch for at least a week. She wasnt big on public nudity or PDAs unless it came to her desire to go skinny dipping. If ever there was a first time for him, he thought, now was the time, his modesty be damned. He didnt want to imagine how much worse it must be for Hannah, who they probably had wearing bloomers no less, but he couldnt help but wish for a sudden thunderstorm to wash over the valley so they could get out of the heat. There was some trouble with the microphone and David watched one of the old men fiddle with about as much success as a cat trying to catch a laser dot. Hannah tried to get him to join the group a little while after they started dating, dragging him to meetings, but his resistance wore her down and he could now get away with a hug and kiss as she left. The meetings consisted of a few old guys with graying beards and overalls telling yarns and fables about life in the Ozarks, though David figured they could be told about any place with minor shifts in description. The first meeting Hannah and the group badgered him to tell a story. He tried to tell a story based on his novel he was working on. Unlike the groups oral histories, Davids story followed Alfred Spike, a thirty one year old detective who fled to Moon City, the largest and oldest base on the Moon. The city was a lethargic town where not much happened. Alfred, clad in ill-fitting suits and ties he picked up from thrift stores, spent most of his time in bars blowing the money he earned from photographing cheating husbands on menial and flavorless booze. He smoked too much; another habit hed developed to keep from remembering a time when he wouldnt punch someone for calling him Alfie. Alfreds story, like any good story, started with a murder and a woman. Roxana, a girl of less than moderate means newly arrived in Moon City from the bustling cities of Mars and coming to join her brother only to find him recently deceased. He promised himself he wouldnt take these kinds of cases anymore, but a damsel from the homeworld he couldnt refuse. He also had an idea of where to start. Hannah had glared at David when he started the tale, her eyes suggesting he should reconsider his story choice. Shed never had anything nice or constructive to say about that story, at least other than the usual platitudes David expected from a girlfriend, which even then seemed sparse to him. Her lack of support had, early on, caused him a touch of anxiety, but as the relationship continued hed pushed those feelings to the back of his mind. He wasnt surprised when the gathered men didnt seem to like it, offering him veiled hints about different stories he could tell, all of them assuming he already knew the basics. He wrote them off as not his kind of audience; besides, he felt half the trouble with his novel was the lack of potential for a detective in a small Ozarkian city. A detective would be elsewhere, where things happened other than the appearance of a mysterious stranger. And, David had developed as a nagging thought, he needed to be where those things happened or he would never get the experience he needed to make his writing come alive. Elsewhere was where the people he could connect with were, unlike the old men. Elsewhere was Chicago.The old man gave up on the microphone, leaving Hannah to fidget with it for a moment. The latch gave way and with a few twists and shoves, she brought the mic down to her level where she was able to shove plug back into the microphone. She tapped it a few times and the mechanical bup, bup, bup echoed off the hills, rattling a few birds in the tree David was leaning against. He struggled against the heat to regain his focus, while Hannah, with an air of gravitas he didnt expect from such a small frame, began her story, one hed heard many times before. He knew she was intent on making it her signature piece. ***The year was 1899. The tuberculosis outbreak raged through the community taking all manner of folk rich and poor. No matter the station in life, you could be carted off to the quarantine on the southern edge of town where nuns from St. Louis would look after your soul. But this is not the story of disease. This is the story of old Sheedy farm, which some of you may know as the Albino farm. Three people lived on the Sheedy farm. Genevieve Sheedy, who had run the farm with her husband Fredrick until he succumbed to consumption. Her younger sister by seven years, Mary, and an albino man who they brought on as a hand after their older brother was taken away to the quarantine. On the particular day of this story, Mary and Genevieve were sitting on the porch swing looking out over the field at some particularly fluffy clouds. As they rocked on the swing, Mary spoke up, Bernard tells me they have one of those new talky boxes down at the rail station.Mary had designs on Bernard, though he had only an inkling of this. He was just under six feet and had thick dark hair. While his looks were good, what really attracted Mary was his ownership of a small supply store on the north side of town. Farm life never appealed to her. He was even particularly funny, though she suspected he might have cribbed a fair bit from Mr. Twain, whose works he had a full shelf. Aware of her sisters urge to talk about her crush, Genevieve refused to take the bait. I dont like it. Itll just lead to jibber-jabbering. Telegraphs are the best for communication. Short, to the point. Even a letter is better. You have time to think about what youre saying.Oh Genevieve, Mary said. Wouldnt it be nice to be able to talk to people in town? Its been such a sad season. Nobody comes out to the farm for picnics anymore since the consumption hit.Genevieve looked at Mary with an air of pity. The consumption had taken their father, brother, and her husband and Mary had only just come of marrying age. Some people had a high opinion, but Genevieve was more inclined to agree with the traveling preachers who proclaimed the inherent evil of man. With no eligible heir to the Sheedy farm it wasnt worth hitching up the wagons to pay call, consumption or not. Mary looked down to examine her boots, which she tapped against the loose wooden board to break the silence. Genevieve furled her brow and looked on with some disdain, but found the tapping far more pleasant than nave optimism. She scrounged her sewing materials off the stout porch table and set to work while Mary looked for something to draw delight in, as was her way. Genevieve cursed under her breath as Marys elbowing caused her to miss a stitch. Absorbed in the work, she first missed Mary repeatedly calling her name. It wasnt until Mary began tugging on her blouse sleeve she uttered a loud and unkind, What?***Hannahs loud shout startled David. He scootched his back up the tree so he was once again sitting upright, looking alert, like he had been paying attention the whole time. Though, he wondered whether he was doing it simply because he felt guilty. As far away as the stage was, Hannah wouldnt be able to pick him out of the crowd, and thats assuming she was looking. In earlier versions of story, after theyd met, Bernard had resembled him in description, but that part, at the urging of her group, had been cut. Hed been daydreaming about the time she criticized his novel, or at least his subconscious, emulating the Boy Scouts, felt he needed to remember that moment, perhaps because, having waited till the last moment, and not being that serious of a relationshiptheyd never professed their love to one anothershe would turn his offer of relocation down. Be prepared his unconscious would say to him, while he would protest back that he didnt actually hate her.David had been in his office checking the view count on his latest blog post and responding to comments when Hannah walked into the room, the first chapter of his novel in hand. Shed only recently moved in to the apartment at this point. She wore pajama pants and a t-shirt while he had donned his usual jeans, dress shirt, and even suit jacket. David felt he needed to separate work from pleasure, even while at home. The outfit was a way of delineating and helped him feel professional. David spun around in his chair, planted his foot on the ground, then, seeing Hannah had not yet sat down, spun around again. She sat in the bucket chair on the far side of the room. On either side, a bookshelf towered over her and the light coming through the window illuminated only one side of her face, giving her a somewhat sinister feel. David wheeled his chair between her and the window, casting his shadow over her. He wasnt a fan of the power dynamic, though he did it all the time at work and so the position seemed second nature to him. Turning on the nearby floor lamp would seem odd. Instead, David leaned to his left to allow the light to once more fall on Hannah, but he didnt like to see any sort of maliciousness in her, even if it was unintentional. Reaching behind him, straining his shoulder, he grasped the thin cord and drew the blinds shut. Hannah opened her mouth, but David was out of his chair and across the room to the switch before she could speak. Returning to his chair, squeaking as he sat, he eyed the stack of paper in her hand and admired her new nail polish: a soft pink. She sat, eyes fixated on him for a moment just past no longer comfortable before asking, Hows the blog going?Pretty good, he responded, letting the words calm him down from his thought he might have upset her. Good, she responded, flashing a brief smile before asking if it was the Chicago post. David nodded and Hannah praised it as her favorite. Hed been in Chicago to interview for the job whose offer now sat in the bag beside him. Though hed never admitted it to Hannah, he had cut his planned trip short so he could make a date with her before she had to leave on a business trip of her own. There was also a file on his computer, sitting in the unpublished sketches folder; a lengthy two page sketch he wrote to describe her after theyd had their first date. He considered it even better than his Chicago post, but never published it for fear she wouldnt like it, particularly after she criticized his novel. Like his other posts, it lacked any description of who she was as a person. He felt it needed her desires, her past, and her present to be an accurate picture of who she was. Hannah, sitting in the bucket chair, leaned forward and with a slight toss, landed the stack of paper in Davids lap. David started to read her body posture, but got no lower than her face. The smile had disappeared and she avoided eye contact. Good news it was not. Honestly, she said with little reservation, its not very good. Its not like your character sketches at all.David, caught up on the first part of her sentences, took a few moments to process her softening blow. He sat back in his chair, taking the stack of paper in one hand and tossing it behind him on the desk. The clip gave way and the stack ended with paper careening off the back, falling down behind with all the cords. But those are just descriptions of people, he said defensively, consciously holding his voice down so as not to appear upset or angry. Theres nothing to them. Its life and nobody wants to read about that. They deal with that everyday.Hannah stood and gestured towards the computer with her hand. Her mouth hung open and her eyes bulged. She fixated on David before spinning and, with an emphasis on each step, left the room. David could still hear her feet as she walked down the hall to the living room. After that moment, David never showed her another piece of his fiction. He never bothered to even tell her he continued to write. Avoidance had always been his style. Alfred, however, only avoided responsibility and paying bar tabs when he could, but with Roxana around both were increasingly hard to shirk. Bartenders memories, Alfred found, were far more selective when presented with a generous and timely tip. He didnt know if the Man, as Alfred had taken to calling him, suspected he was being tailed. There were only so many seedy bars in Moon City, few enough that running into the same clientele was likely enough to not arouse suspicion, unless you dressed like the Man. Based off a guy David and Hannah saw far too often around town to not know anything about, the Man was short with graying and curly hair that came down to about the shoulders. The nose was prominent and bulbous, but he drew attention aware from his face by dressing as if he were on a perpetual Caribbean vacation, from the tacky silk shirts with palm tree patters right down to the flip-flops. He was a yeah man or two aware from being a hippy, David had once quipped to a less than amused reaction than he had hoped from Hannah.Thinking over his novel, David found himself examining the branches on the tree above him. The leaves looked wilted. They were a dull green and unable to hold themselves outright. To David they seemed defeated, like theyd given up hope of ever seeing rain again. In the background, Hannahs voice distracted him from his thoughts on his novel. ***Mary stood, causing the swing to jerk and Genevieves thread nearly toppled from her lap. Theres people coming up the road. What a surprising delight. I bet theyre handsome. She turned to face Genevieve, who having set her sewing aside once more began to stand. Do you think theyre handsome?Rather than answer her sisters over-excited meanderings, she made her way down the porch steps and out into the yard in order to get a better look as the interlopers approached. Mary, she shouted, fetch the medical kit from the kitchen. And make sure the parlor has air.Two men were approaching up the road. Genevieve strained to tell who they were, but one was about the right height and demeanor to be the neighbor Mr. Portenmaeux. The other man, who she couldnt place, held in his arms a young woman, who was fast approaching her adult years. That meant trouble. Where was Albert, she thought. He was a good, hardy worker, whom she could give a scarce complaint, but he never seemed to be around in their most dire. A few months earlier, while attempting to draw some flour from the barn, the sack shifted and pinned her. While uninjured, she waited three hours for him to return while she read a book her sister had fetched. He could swiftly transport the girl to their parlor, unlike the man who was barely struggling to contain her, even with the awkward help Mr. Portenmaeux attempted to offer. Genevieve stood by the gate, sweat dripping down her face and soaking into her blouse as the sun bore down on her. She had struggled to pull the gate open by herself. She didnt recognize the girl or the other man. Something ripped and slashed the girls dress; there was a gash from the right shoulder down to the elbow. Parts of her petticoats were missing and only the lord knew what shoes shed been wearing. As they came closer, Genevieve could make out the blackening bump on her head, surrounded by dried blood. She let out a slight sigh, then sucked in a large breath, realizing shed been holding her breath. At least the bleeding had stopped, she thought in order to comfort herself. ***The sun had shifted down behind the stage, causing David to shift his gaze from Hannah to the crowd. Among the sea of Mr. Portenmaeuxs he tried to spot the minority, the one person among the crowd of Christian Conservatives who wouldnt attribute his beliefs to the influence of Satan, or at least didnt listen to politicians who claimed as much. Perhaps he should listen to the news less, so he would miss the latest controversial rantings of Limbaugh, OReilly, and Beck. Maybe then he would feel more comfortable putting his feet in the door of local establishments without thinking he would be castigated. The whole mass before David seemed to him a collected stereotype: white southerners wearing flag t-shirts and cut-off shorts, eating fried food, and garbling down culture like only they had a right to partake. Sure, he thought, this group could be polite on the surface, but underneath theyd been trained to fester and boil an insincerity and hatred towards any difference, real or perceived. If he wasnt welcome in their town, he felt, then paused to reconsider his thought. If he wasnt welcome in this townwhy should they get to own itthen they werent welcome on his blog. They didnt deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as the mother hed seen on the L, much less separated by months on the same blog. David thought back to his trip.The latino woman had stood near the subway door, holding the hands of two young children. She wasnt beautiful or seductive; pretty maybe. A young mother, David thought her somewhere in her thirties, she chatted about tattooing the line map on her shoulder to placate her childrens anxiety. She answered her phone, switching from English to Spanish as she greeted the caller. Perhaps it was her husband, or a lover. It could have even been a woman who would not only fill her life with passion, but also treat her kids well. David had no way of knowing. She was not a poet, likely lacked the time to write, yet, to David, the sound of her voice, the inflection of her language filled the ears of those who took the time to listen with notes on being a human; on a subway, not in front of it. For David, she lacked a past and once she left the train, she would have no future either. She had no politics or fists of solidarity, only two kids whose tiny fingers intertwined with hers as she guided them off the subway towards the surface. David held fast to the pole, fretting he would never get used to keeping his feet as the subway jerked forward. He didnt know how the woman managed with both her hands full. David couldnt wait to go back to Chicago, to share such a moment with Hannah. He was nearly laying fully in the grass under the tree, imagining the two of them together on the subway, her hair curled up the way she did when they went out, makeup on, and between them a small child. Hannah might have wanted a boy, but for David the child was a girl, with a pink dress on, hair done in ponytails, and wearing Hannahs flower beret, which looked comically oversized on the childs head. Hannahs voice filled the vision and destroyed it at the same time. Her story overshadowed his. ***Is she alright? What happened? Genevieve asked when they were finally close enough she neednt yell. I suppose, Mr. Portenmaeux said. He slowed at the gate while his companion continued towards the house. He took off his hat and fanned his bristled face. Content with the reprieve, he tucked the ragged cowboy hat under his arm, and then slowly removed his gloves, first loosening each finger and then pulling them off. It was your albino. He attacked her.Not Albert. He wouldnt, Genevieve protested. In other circumstances, she might have led him on a bit, delighting in watching him arch his back to make his chest seem larger and pressing him towards even more convoluted flattery. Since hed taken on hands, his build had started to wane, the shoulders being less broad and a pooch developing round his middle. Instead she felt faint, but held herself against a fence pole, feeling the wood texture, the cracks and knots imprint on her palms. A pang of platonic affection for Albert made her steady herself upright. Hed been a godsend.Mrs. Springlawn. Mr. Portenmaeux lowered his voice and looked down at the dirt before meeting her eyes once more. His boots were wet and his shirt had come untucked. He done killed two boys as well. Now see here, she said, keeping pace with him as he headed to the house, Ill not have you saying such things of Albert unless you have proof. She found his gruff and condescending manner no more pleasing now than when he had made serious attempts at courting her. She could recall no kind word spoken by him of her late husband either. Sally said as much, he offered.Said as much or said Mr. Portenmaeux? she asked with emphasis on the latter.We found her in an awful state, Mrs. Springlawn. A truly dreadful state that even now Im wary you should enter the house and see her and I do hope my farmhand has kept your sister away for her sensibilities are far more fragile than your own.Genevieve scoffed at him while imagining the many ways her boot could find itself forcefully placed in front of his shins so as to cause painful impact most pleasing to her delicate sensibilities. Immediately after having such thoughts, she mentally chastised herself. Whatever her abhorrence of Mr. Portenmaeux, she needed to think of the girl and getting him away from her. Mr. Portenmaeux scorned her with his eyes before continuing. As I was getting to. When we found her, she was dreadfully arranged. She managed to speak, albeit soft and labored. Albino, he, was all she could managed before she fainted. He continued to explain how Mr. Propen, his hunting companion had looked over into the creek and discovered the bodies of the two dead boys. Genevieve was beyond listening to him, enticed to anger as she was about the quick assumptions drawn as to Alberts guilt. She missed how Mr. Propen had been dispatched to fetch the sheriff and as large an armed posse as could be arranged on short notice. ***That Hannah had so readily agreed to move in with David after his roommate left had been a surprise to him. Sure, living with her parents must have been a drag and he enjoyed waking up to her in the morning and having a roommate he actually wanted to be around was a plus, but the move was quite a bit unexpected for a two-month-old relationship. In retrospect, that she might ask for a part of his office for her own work might have caused him to call the whole relationship off.He remembered watching her feet go up and down the stairs to the apartment as he followed behind her carrying this and that, clothes mostly. The extra bedroom filled with her belongings and yet, he recalled, the lack of any sort of bedroom furniture. After they were done moving, they ended up on the couch in the living room. Some B movie played on whatever station the t.v. was tuned to, not that it really mattered on a Saturday afternoon. So, David said without looking at her.Hannah let her head fall towards him, waited for David to respond, before finally answering, yes?Uh, he stuttered out, wherere you going to sleep? With you, she said, matter of fact, as if he were dumb for not having already reasoned it out.My bed barely fits me.We can get a bigger one.So were just going to use the other room for storage? David asked, hoping to catch her up. I was thinking a library, Hannah said. You said you wanted one. With little more persuasion needed, David relented. He spent many days curled up in the library, particularly on drizzly days in the fall while the leaves lost their grip on their branches and fluttered to the ground. The fake fireplace crackled and Hannahs cat would alternate between stretching out in front of the fire and Davids lap. David and the cat would play the game for hours and he never accomplished the reading he intended, instead cherishing the private moments of interaction, the secret connection with her cat, whose interactions with Hannah were more antagonistic. On drier days, hed walk into the woods that occupied the vacant land behind the apartment complex. There were a few worn paths, created by college students, and ending up in various cleared areas littered with empty beer cans, cigarettes or burned up blunts, and the occasional crudely constructed fire pit. David avoided these rubbish-strewn circles, not because he feared encounters with wayward college students, but because they ruined the natural aesthetic he found so calming. Also, in his college years hed never been invited to partake in such an excursion. As the images of his natural adventures filled his mind, David wondered why hed never bothered to include the woods as part of his series of sketches. They were his versions of Alfred Spikes urban alleyways. Alfred had favorite buildings. David had favorite trees, like the oak where the dense foliage kept the undergrowth at bay, leaving an acorn covered surface that reminded him of what an old growth forest would look like. There was the sugar maple on the far side of the woods. If he climbed it, he could see the abandoned house on the far side of the field; another albino farm for whose heritage had been forgotten. He had, on a few occasions while sitting near the top of the tree, feeling the breeze come off the field, rustling the leaves and tossing his hair, thought to invent a history for the decrepit arrangement of rocks, but he realized his story wouldnt have the same draw. The story would be his and his alone, unlike Hannahs, whose story drew from the local urban legends. David rubbed his shoulder. Despite not wearing the bag, his old football injury, from the one year he playing in high school, was acting up. With only a notebook and the e-mail printout, and though it was impossible, he remembered the bag as far heavier than he knew it to be. He thought of Chicago. There wouldnt be room for the library. Even if the new job paid more, hed be lucky to afford a one-bedroom and woodlands wouldnt exist. Instead, the apartment would probably have a nice view of a brick wall. Brickface never excited him, not with the propensity towards square buildings, designed by pre-Lego architects. David knew he would miss the idiosyncrasies and rock walks he jogged past. He might even need a gym membership. The crowded sidewalks of Chicago didnt seem to afford a rewarding jogging route, unlike the subdivisions east of campus. David looked to Hannah, who seemed to be picking up a second wind. She wouldnt get opportunities like this in Chicago. How interested would they be in the oral histories of the Bible Belt, whose residents according to mass culture were racist evangelicals? Then again, he thought, how interested was she in Chicago? ***The curtains of the sitting room were strung up, leaving the afternoon sun to illuminate every corner of the room. Sally lay immobile on the couch, whose green upholstery clashed with the pinks of her dress. A shadow cast by the tall back of the couch, which slightly obscured the bottoms of the windows, fell over her tiny frame. It hid much of the damage but made the girls skin seem all the more pale. The windows were all open and Genevieve mused on closing them as the draft, though warm, may not do the young girl well. Have you tried the salts, she asked her sister, who was sitting in a chair while Mr. Portenmaeuxs farmhand stood menacingly over her.Mary responded in the negative. She tilted her head back and allowed her eyes to fall on the man beside her. He advised against it.Well he aint done no doctoring I can discern, Genevieve said in a huff and headed towards the medical kit laying on the end table nearest the girls head. He might have been right about it being best for the girl to rest, but she wanted to hear from the girls own lips. The man stepped in her way, while Mr. Portenmaeux dashed across the room to accost her. He refused to relax until Genevieve settled herself in a chair across the room and then proceeded to give her a mild scolding, indicating that she had done enough by just opening her house to the poor girl. His double meaning did not go amiss by her and she grabbed the armrests ever more tightly, regretting not troubling his shins with her boots earlier. Genevieve fixed her eyes on Mr. Portenmaeux, who had taken up a position next to the window and kept his right arm hovering over his holster. Mary tried to make small talk, but the men ignored her and she resorted to clawing at the knees of her dress, bunching it up in her lap. A short time later, a small posse of men arrived with the sheriff. Mr. Weston was among their number, looking the most agitated. Another was Mr. Clairemonte, the owner of a tavern attached to an old mill. The other four were unknown to Genevieve, but the way they occasionally swayed or took a misstep caused her to protest to Mr. Portenmaeux that they should be relieved of their weapons. She feared one of their number might be left behind, not for her safety, but rather to keep her from Sally. However, with the prospect of a lynch mob, the men were not about to let slip a chance to demonstrate their manhood by an elaborate presentation of their honor. Armed peacocks, Genevieve thought. Brains about the same size too. They set off whooping and hollering in ways she had only read about in some of the old novels her father had collected, but wouldnt let her read. Shed taken them up after he died but found them not to her liking. They, as she found herself agreeing with others she didnt normally care to agree with, contain a fair amount of literary offenses. ***The sun disappeared behind a mountain, or what passes for a mountain in the Ozarks. Compared to the Rockies its like the difference between the Mississippi and the local river where people go floating. A more accurate description of an Ozark Mountains, as David once offered his friend who lived outside Boston, is a series of hills that grew too large to be called rolling. A cool breeze started up the valley, rustling the leaves on the trees. Though a cloudless sky, David felt the beginnings of a thunderstorm in his bones. He hoped it would hold off until he and Hannah made it home. Then the two of them could sit on their porch, sipping local beershe had Three Blind Mice on tapwhile watching the storm roll in. The moments before the storm hit were his favorite. The strong chilled winds, darkening skies, and the silence of animals created a sense of danger mixed with serenity before things broke loose and water drenched the world. When the rain came, they would retreat inside, put on some jazz, and sit on the couch reading books. David would pause occasionally to glance over at Hannah. Shed have pulled her hair up, or braided it into a pony tail and changed into old jeans with a ratty t-shirt. Moments like these, with the rain battering the roof and windows reminded David of his youthful summers when he crawled behind the couch and watched the storms pass. They were happy moments for him. While he, when young, would eventually bore and go off to play with Legos or video games, David never left the couch before Hannah. Even though she never returned his glance, sitting on the couch together, watching her absorbed in whatever book she was reading, her eyes twitching back and forth, he felt connected to her. David tried to write a scene like that into his novel, but failed. Alfred, he realized, would never sit next to Roxana and look at her longingly over the top of a book. It wasnt that kind of a relationship. Study her for a clue, possibly, but with the case left open, Roxana was a piece of a puzzle that needed solving before life could go on. Even if Alfred wanted to, he didnt own a couch. His small flat was a Spartan testament to minimalism. If pressed, he claimed it had amazing Feng shui if only because there was nothing for a dragon to run into other than a barren wall one could meditate at. Roxana, after spending her time there at Alfreds behest, said it needed color. Alfred said it needed less women staying there. He himself made due by being elsewhere and it had been a perfectly reasonable solution for him. Before Davids roommate moved to the East coast, when he and Hannah had only been together for a few months, David convinced her, after a storm, to go hiking with him. She initially resisted, fearing the path would be mostly mud. Hed been down the paths enough times to know which trails had enough rocks and other detritus to avoid turning into a slush. Even then, he had added, the lack of rain meant most of the water would be absorbed into the ground. He was glad when she relented. There was a spot he wanted to show her, where, after a storm, the creek bed filled with water. In one spot, a series of large stones stayed high enough out of the water so that he could rest on top of them and allow his feet to dangle in the cool stream. At first Hannah had called it neat, then the two proceeded to something more physical, but not as far as David would have hoped. Many things, in fact, did not go as he hoped, being in the relationship was one of the few things that had, that made David feel as if he was getting his life on track. Neither of them had gone back since and David wondered if the place still existed. He assumed it should, they werent small rocks by any means. In Chicago he could stick his feet in a fountain, but theyd probably run him off as if he were one of the many homeless who, due to some mental illness or drug habit for which they could no longer get assistance, were doomed to wander the streets. If the people he lived among had to see such visible reminders of their politics, he thought, they might follow the teachings of Jesus as much as they pretended to. With the thought in mind, David grasped his jacket, dragging it closer so he could extract his moleskin notebook. He wrote a note, in his scrawling and nearly illegible handwriting, reminding himself to drive up to C-Street where the pedestrian bridge went over the tracks. The homeless of the town gathered there behind the buildings. A few sketches for the local newspaper might enlighten people to the rampant poverty around them, offering them something to read in the morning over coffee in their oversized suburban house on the south side of town. Even if it never accomplished more than those ads for adopting Latin American children for twenty cents a day, at the least he would have started to put the homeless in the minds of those who would rather pretend they didnt exist. He wondered though, if this was really the extent to what he could possibly do. Raising awareness for him was about as rewarding as slapping a magnetic ribbon on the back of a car. When he would complain about his feelings of powerlessness to affect change, Hannah would respond in trite clichs about the thought being what counts; however, in his mind David played with his response. Thoughts were a lot like prayers. They do little and require even less effort.David considered Genevieve. What was she really going to accomplish by waking the girl up? Would it really help the albino? She hadnt even demanded Mr. Portenmaeux explain himself. No, Portenmaeux was the Albinos problem. If her curiousity was assuage everything was alright by her. ***With the men out of sight, Genevieve took the salts from the table and, kneeling with her nose turned away from the girl, broke the tablets. Even facing away the smell infected her nostrils and made her glad she was not prone to fainting spells. Though, if she were, she reasoned, a few whiffs of salts would cure her of such a disposition. Mary had stood up and was now hovering behind Genevieve. Do you think he hurt her? she asked softly, as if she thought she might disturb the girl. Genevieve looked up as she waved the salts back and forth. Honestly, I hope he was watching the farm. If he sneaks back here, we could set him up with Pike. Hes a fast enough horse that he should be able to get up north. Send a message up the Wire Road when its safe for him to return. On the couch, Sarah coughed ever so lightly Genevieve thought she might have imagined it. If it wasnt for the moaned that followed she might have been inclined to believe she had. The girl started to sit up but Genevieve settled her back, shushing her and assuring her that everything would be all right. She didnt want the girl to panic and faint again. Sally, she said in an imitation of her mother before she died, youre at Springlawn farm. Do you understand?Sally nodded slowly, hair falling in front of her eyes. Genevieve brushed it away. She knelt down closer to the girl and held her up while Mary maneuvered a pillow behind her. There now, thats more comfortable.Yes miss, Sally said faintly, hesitating to continue. Genevieve found the girls desire to be proper, even while in such a state, to be charming. She told the girl to call her Gen, a name only her mother had called her when she was little and one she never particularly liked. Gen. Sally tried to raise her arm but winced and dropped it back to the couch. She followed by asking if she could have some water, which Genevieve dispatched Mary to fetch. Now this might be hard, Genevieve said, and I wouldnt ask you to if it wasnt important. But I need to know what happened. She assured Sally that she mustnt stress herself. If she wasnt able then she wasnt able and nobody would blame her. Mary reappeared with the water and handed it to Genevieve who held it up to Sallys lips, less puffy than they had been before, so that she could slowly sip the cool drink. Genevieve detected the slight smell of brandy that Mary had mixed in, and might have pulled the drink away, but the sentiment of the act seemed well intentioned. ***A small child caught Davids eye. The small mop of blonde perched atop a flowery pink dress was carrying a slushi back to her seat. Clasped around the oversized cup, her tiny hands failed to meet. Her mother walked beside her. Without her mothers hand to steady her, the girl tripped, breaking her fall with the cup she refused to let go of. It crushed open, sending globs of red, partially melted ice over the girl, staining her dress, covering her face and hair, and sending her into a sobbing fit. David had never been a big fan of children, though admittedly, hed little exposure with them in his adult life, but the crying child with red goop ruining what he imagined was her favorite dress caused him remorse at both the loss of her drink and dress. When he was little and his parents took him to Disney World, they bought him a large chocolate chip cookie, but a seagull had swooped down and snatched the treat from his hands. The entire day had been ruined. Since that day he was always overly careful not to spill anything he bought for fear he would lose it. Even when he bought chocolate, it would sit at home for months before hed eat it because he didnt want to experience the loss of potential happiness. However, as hed grown, the idea of placing happiness in objects seemed increasingly silly to him. He looked at Hannah, standing on stage in her period dress and anachronistic shoes. And object or a place werent what was making him happy anymore. Sartre was wrong. David still, however, harbored a vendetta against seagulls, though it mostly manifested itself as an interesting topic of conversation at parties. The girl was whisked away by her mother to be cleaned up and so David turned his attention back to Hannah, whose feet were planted firmly on the stage. With the sun peeking out from behind the mountain once more, she had an eerie glow. Children and a family were never part of his plans until Hannah. They didnt seem to be in hers either, but David had on a few occasions seen her with her friends child. Shed make faces, the baby would mimic them, and Hannah would smile. It was a side of Hannah he never saw when it was the two of them alone and yet he wanted to see her happy like that more often. He felt he could raise a family with her, if its what she really wanted. They could be more like Mary and Bernard, even if it meant he would have the unfulfilling job, rather than Genevieve and her disdain for men. ***After drinking the glass, Sally began to tell her story. She had gone down to Oxbridge Hollow with the Wentworth boys. Her mom and dad had forbidden any contact with them, claiming them the wrong kind of family, but her parents had died of consumption she was placed in the care of her uncle whose primary concern was where his next bottle was from. He wasnt abusive, just neglectful. Sally determined to make up for lost time. Sallys friends, whod had many an opportunity to be partnered with Dixon or Eaton at the country-dances shed been forbidden from, held the Wentworth boys as a high prize. When, on a hot day, they availed upon her to join them to enjoy the cool water of the hollow, she acquiesced without a feign of protest.Oxbridge Hollow was one of the few places along Dry Mill Creek where, during a dry spell, the creek bed was low enough for water to retake the surface. Thus, the bubbling water remained always cool even in the most oppressive heat. Alberts addition of a rock damn to turn the hallow into a small wading poolthough his intent was to make it easier to draw water frommade the hollow a favorite of many area youths who also enjoyed the steep banks with heavy vegetation that made it hard for passersby to oversee their tomfoolery. The banks also prevented sound from escaping, creating a perfect hideaway for the youth to get up to their schemes. The Wentworth boys were wading in the water with their pants rolled up to the knees while Sally looked on. She had perched herself on a large rock aside the pool and let her feet dangle delicately in the water. Eaton, the younger of the two had caught her eye. He, unlike his brother, was clean-shaven and not quite as stocky. His hair was shorter as well, more kept than Dixon who let it grow out into a scraggly mop. She was enjoying the view when the boys began splashing water at each other. In the process of getting each other wet beyond repair, they had splashed the hem of Sallys dress. She tried her best to look angry, squinting and scowling, but the boys just laughed and began stripping off their wet clothes. When she objected to their impropriety, they splashed more water on her, soaking her dress completely. Best to get that off and let it dry before you catch cold, Dixon argued and Eaton pointed out the sun baked rocks as a perfect place to let them dry. Sally objected as the two closed in on her. She tried to stand, but lost her footing on the now wet rock and plunged into the shallow water. Her head struck a rock. When she came to she could feel hands grabbing at her dress and her lungs felt on fire. Wet filled her mouth as she tried to draw in air. Panicked, she tried to rear back, but a weight fell on top of her then rolled off. She raised her head above the surface and breathed deep. She sputtered. Never had breathing been this hard. Getting to her feet, she coughed, heaved, and fell down to her knees. Vomit. There was screaming. A glint of metal held in the hand of the scrawny kid. Sally heard a loud crack and the kid fell. Rocks scratched into one another. There was the beast coming towards her. Sickly white, bright red eyes, too white hair. He walked out to her. This was it she thought. The beast of many a campfire stories was upon her. She felt she should be frightened. Yet, he was too slow and he held his hands out for her to see, like a person approaching a new dog. Sally let him grab her underneath her arms. He lifted her from the water and carried her, soaking wet dress and all, to the warmth of the sunlit rocks. There he laid her down on her side, propping her up with his hands. She coughed and vomited again. The pressure left her back. She nearly cried out, but a hand returned soon and a ladle pressed against her lips. She sipped at it for a bit and then it went away. The hand on her back was moving in a circle between her shoulder blades. The scary man, the beast, Albert as she learned to call him, spoke to her. Sally would later claim he was singing. She never could recall what he said. It could have been half an hour or five minutes, but there was yelling in the distance. The hand on her back jerked more and pressed harder. Albert no longer spoke. Somebody close yelled into the hollow. The hand left her back followed by the low grind of smooth rocks pressed against one another. Sally fell on her back and looked towards the sky. There were no clouds, the sun was shining, but the blue was darker. Not even a light blue. Just blue. Somebody shook her. A face, with gristle. The breath smelled bad and he asked her something. Albino, he. The sky was black. After asking a few more questions of Sally, Genevieve satisfied herself that Albert had acted only in defense of himself and the girl. The wind blew in through the windows, catching houseplants and bending them over. The pot of tulips fell off its small perch and crashed on the floor. Sally jerked. Genevieve enticed her to calm down with another glass of water Mary had fetched. I dont like this, she said softly to Mary. ***The story over, David met Hannah outside the back exit. He remained quiet for the drive, hoping Hannah didnt want to talk after spending most of the last hour doing nothing but. Even in the restaurant, he barely opened his mouth, making only occasional sounds and nodding his head to prove he was paying attention. Tomatoes sat on the window sill and outside in the courtyard, water splashed down the layers of the fountain. On a wall was a cloth map of the counties of Ireland, next to it on the bookshelf was a photobook of the country that David had leafed through on many of his unaccompanied visits to the restaurant in college. As a tearoom, the restaurant closed before dinner on most weekdays. After college the job at the advertising agency kept him away. The last time the two ate there, they talked about how much they wished they could visit Ireland. David offered pictures and stories. Hannah talked of her experience of being there while taking a semester abroad. She wanted some goats. He wanted a sheep. Together, he recalled joking, they created a small imaginary barnyard with a garden and a few cats. On this visit, as he watched the sky fill with clouds, he muttered, A pity they dont have any whiskey. It was one of the few things he said the whole visit and Hannah didnt respond. The waitress came by, took Hannahs plate and brought a kettle of hot water to refill the teas. David still had half a sandwich left and what remained of his tea had gone cold. He was usually the first to finish. Having an older brother, hed learned to eat quickly. Hannah ordered a dessert. While she waited, she looked at David who avoided her gaze. Whats wrong? she asked. At first David pretended he didnt hear her, until she repeated herself louder. He turned away from the window, muttering some incomprehensible gibberish under his breath to stall for time. She pressed him again and he responded, bluntly, I have something to tell you. Hannah sat back in her chair, causing it to tip a little before it settled back to the floor. David reached into his bag. His fingers closed on the e-mail. His fingers slid across the paper as it pulled the moisture from his skin. His skin would dry, become abrasive. The paper would wrinkle, eventually drying with ridges where his fingers had held it. As he started to pull the single sheet of paper from the bag, he thought of earlier, of his trip to Chicago where he had to jostle through crowds on the sidewalk and subway. He knew nothing about them. He thought of Hannahs group, who despite disliking his story, still cared enough to give advice. He thought of children, of going out into nature, of sitting with Hannah and watching the weather. They couldnt get a house in Chicago. They wouldnt even have room for the dachshund he wanted, much less the sheep or goats. For a garden they might have some potted plants, which wouldnt do for a stroll. Hannah was here, sitting across from him. He was here. The people he knew were here. The things that made him happy werent the mythical possibilities of elsewhere, but places where he and his friends actually walked.Hannahs eyes stared at him, accusing him of needlessly drawing out what he had to say. He wondered if she thought he would propose or if she thought he had bad news. In a way, he thought, it was. The paper seemed to grow in his hand, threatening a papercut. His tender grasp held the paper open, ready to lift it from the bag, but he couldnt yet bring himself to put the message on the table. David thought of his novel, of his detective Alfred Spike sitting next to Roxana on beach chairs looking out over the barren lunar sea after toppling the only major criminal enterprise in Moon City in the last thirty years. All of this was the result of a simple oversight on Alfreds part: paying too much attention to a woman at a bar. That he ended up with the girl, David thought, was just something that could happen in a novel. The hand of the author swooping in and setting reality in line with karma. Yet, as David sat in the silence imagining Alfred reclining in his suit, top button of his shirt undone with the tie loosely tied round his neck, there was still the beginning of Alfreds journey to reckon with. Alfred hadnt started in Moon City. Hed fled there. It had been his elsewhere after a turbulent and mysterious past. David thought again of Hannahs group. Their advice wasnt about storytelling. It was about becoming more like them. Hed never really wanted children. Nature, hed been alone there. Hannah only went to the creek with him that once and in the entire time theyd sat on the couch reading David couldnt recall a single time shed looked up at him. The friends he had hung out with in his school days had long since moved on in their lives. The people he knew were Hannahs friends. They were her roots. Her life was here, and it wasnt his. The house, the garden, the pets, he realized, were all substitutions for elsewhere, for the mythical possibilities of Chicago. Hannah seemed to David on the verge of breaking her silent awaiting of his response. Her lips parted and closed. The thought struck him. He was her albino, a convenience who was denied his hopes and dreams in exchange for a place to be and unwilling to strike out for elsewhere. He needed to get on the horse and head for St. Louis and beyond not just to escape Mr. Portenmaeux and the town he represented, but Hannah as well. Or, as Alfred was fond of saying, Its easy to shoot for the Moon, when youre on the Moon. The job, for David, was the reason to take the rocket there and Hannah wasnt the woman Chicago could be.