by Penn Gates
Douglas staggers from the office, closing the door gently as if it’s made of glass.
Nix suddenly feels like she's going to vomit. She sits down and puts her head between her knees. Did I really just tell a teen-age boy I would be happy to kill him? My God, I'm becoming a monster. What will I do next? I should put a bullet in my own skull before I discover the answer to that question.
After awhile, she sits up, but her head feels so heavy she rests it on Gramps' desk for just a minute, until she feels stronger. A knock on the door wakes her. For a moment, she's completely disoriented. Then she realizes where she is and it all comes flooding back. There's another knock.
Nix rubs her eyes and clears her throat. “Come in,” she croaks.
As George enters the room, Nix sits straighter and promises herself that she won't threaten another teenager today—even though she's pretty sure as soon as George opens his mouth she'll want to.
Surprisingly, George seems calm. “Are you all right, Miss St Clair?” he asks solicitously.
“Sure,” she answers, trying to sound casual. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She runs her fingers through her hair. That spiky punk look, she thinks. Yep, attractive as hell—especially on an older woman. She glances at the Seth Thomas. Crap. She's been asleep for a couple of hours. What a great example. Our fearless leader is sleeping in today, folks. Why? Because she wants oblivion, that's why.
“Did you just threaten to shoot Freddie?” George asks and, to his credit, he looks her in the eye when he does.
“Yes,” she answers because—what else is there to say?
“Well, you had to,” George says. “He will die if he does not stop. Margaret is not sure he has not done himself some lasting harm.”
“I beg your pardon,” Nix says. “I must have misunderstood. I thought I heard you say it was a good thing I threatened someone with violence.”
“I know what you are doing,” George says reassuringly. “Cash explained to me about tough love.”
Nix stands up. “You know what, George? I don't want to hear any more about what Cash thinks. What do you think? Can you tell me that?”
George looks distressed. “I am not able to be discussing this with you. I am not really understanding any of it. You are threatening Freddie with death to keep him from killing himself, and Cash was hurting Frank Turner to stop him from hurting you. It makes my head spin.”
“Join the club,” Nix says, not unkindly. “And by the way, the idiot who just painted his lungs red is named Douglas, not Freddie. No one calls him Freddie any more. Pass the word along.”
◆◆◆
For Nix, the Fourth of July has always been a lot bigger deal than Christmas. As far as she and Gramps were concerned, they were the last of the St Clairs, and Christmas had never been about family get togethers. The two of them took the tractor out and found a tree to cut. They went to midnight services on Christmas Eve, and on Christmas morning Gramps solemnly handed her one gift. It was always an item she needed, clothing or a book bag, or a pair of winter boots.
Independence Day, on the other hand, had been something she'd anticipated from the beginning of summer. Everyone in and around Hamlin showed up for the picnic at City Park. A brass band played patriotic tunes from the bandstand while folks strolled past a line of booths sponsored by local organizations.
You could buy a slice of homemade pie or hurl a well-placed softball and dunk the teacher who'd given you detention. After dark, the volunteer fire department oversaw the fireworks display. It had been the only time Nix ever felt she truly belonged, maybe because she knew she was an American even if she wasn't always sure how long she'd be sticking around Hamlin.
The Fourth happens to fall on a Sunday this year. It's also the first time she's been around for this holiday in decades—and wouldn’t you know it, she thinks—the band’s dead. Nix knows nostalgia should be taken in very small doses. Otherwise the sugar coating that makes the past palatable eventually makes you sick, and she feels bad enough these days as it is.
Nix is damned if she’ll sit around and reminisce. She decides to spend the holiday working on her ancestors' herbal. With the help of both Margaret and Emma, Nix has been translating the archaic measurements and terminology, but it's been slow going. More than once she's yearned for the Internet, something she thought she'd never miss. While she'd loved its faster than a speeding bullet capabilities in police work, it made her sick to see one of mankind's most astounding accomplishments—instant access to the collective knowledge of humanity—degraded by the mindless ways it was used.
After another fifteen minutes of pretending to study while watching dust motes drift in a beam of sunshine, Nix admits she's stuck and closes the herb book until she can consult Margaret. She is secretly in awe of the fifteen-year-old girl, who knows how to organize and feed a group that's grown to an incredible twenty-four members in a span of less than six months.
Thinking about it in those terms, asking her to take on this whole herbal medicine thing seems like the cherry on top—or maybe the straw that breaks the camel's back. Even with Brittany helping Mary, neither girl is yet capable of keeping track of supplies. In spite of feeling a little guilty, Nix goes looking for Margaret anyway and finds her in the kitchen with Mary and Brittany.
“I am sorry, Nix, but I cannot study with you today,” Margaret says with an air of distraction.
Nix wanders out to the garden where she half-heartedly pulls a few weeds. She knows if Pope George catches her, he'll give her one of his stink eye looks of disapproval. She glances up at the front porch and notices that someone has repainted and hung a wooden porch swing almost the width of a sofa. Before she can question herself, she scrambles up to the porch and stretches out full length. She stares above her at the wooden slats of the porch ceiling and listens to the creak of the chains, back and forth, back and forth.
When she opens her eyes and sits up, the length of the shadows tell her it's late afternoon. How is it possible that no one has bothered me all this time? Maybe they’re afraid of me, she thinks sourly. I’m the mean old spinster who runs the orphanage.
Yawning, she stretches her arms above her head and inhales deeply, and that's when she smells it—smoke. Who, in their right mind, would build a fire on a hot day? Is the kitchen up in flames? Have they been attacked? Immediately she realizes that neither is probable. The farm bell would be ringing. There would be shouting. Gunfire. No, all she hears is peace and—the sound of voices out back. All is as it should be. Or close enough.
When Nix wanders around the corner of the house, she sees the younger kids carefully feeding a bonfire with small sticks as Rick DeJesus, one of the Former Friends of Frank, adds a larger chunk. She smiles. These days it's hard to keep up with the nicknames of people and places—but whatever makes them happy and/or doesn't cause trouble.
“Nix!” Martin shrieks. “Hurry up! You almost missed it! We got Coke to drink. And Pepsi. And some orange stuff, too.”
“Wow, looks like a picnic,” Nix says as she accepts a bottle of soda from Martin. “This is a surprise.”
“It is! It is a surprise!" Martin grins. “And there's more surprises. Just you wait." He tugs on the hem of her T-shirt. “C'mon, sit down over here. The food is coming any second." He points toward the house.
Margaret, Mary, and Brittany come down the steps of the porch carrying bowls of potato salad and platters of hamburgers, which Nix hopes are made of venison. She's fairly certain George would never let them kill a cow for a picnic.
“Where did you get the buns?” Nix asks in amazement as Brittany sets a platter in front of her. “They couldn't have survived so long on a Walmart shelf. Or could they? God knows what preservatives they put in those things.”
Brittany laughs. “Margaret figured out how to make them. It took her two whole days. Isn't she brilliant?”
Nix takes a big bite from her burger. “She's a genius is what she is.”
She looks down the length of th
e table and catches sight of Cash, late as usual, shoehorning himself into a spot that Terry has obviously saved for him. Nix is ambushed by an unexpected surge of regret. This food, the healthy kids—none of it would be possible without his help. They've been partners in this venture almost from the start, and now she can't bear to be near him.
She looks away and catches George gazing at Brittany with a sappy look on his face. Does he have any idea how transparent his feelings are? She wants to warn him to protect his heart before it's broken. Suddenly a small object that looks like a spitball whizzes past George, grazing his left ear. Nix notices that George immediately glances in Cash's direction. For a moment the two look at each other, then George nods his head and turns to Marcus on his left and asks him to pass the potato salad.
After every scrap of food has disappeared, Bob stands up and wave a bag of marshmallows over his head. “Who wants to toast these suckers over the fire?” he yells.
All of the smaller kids squeal in delight, and some of the older ones look pretty taken with the idea, too.
“Then go find a green branch from one of the saplings,” Bob orders.
“Martin,” Nix calls, “Green branches are too tough to rip off. I'll help you cut one with my pocket knife.” They walk toward the trees together, and Martin grabs Nix's hand. “This is better than Christmas,” he says to her, his eyes shining.
She looks down at him and wonders exactly when he’d become so important to her. “You know what, Martin? I’ve always felt exactly the same way. We really are related, aren't we?”
They rustle through the leaves for a minute and Nix says, “Got it! It's perfect. See how it's like a fork on the end? That keeps your marshmallow from falling off into the fire.”
Nix has never liked the puffy little confections. She doesn't understand their appeal any more than she knows why otherwise sane people like to stuff pink spun sugar in their mouths at carnivals. As far as kids are concerned, it probably has more to do with being allowed to play with your food and fire at the same time. Especially if your marshmallow bursts into flames as does Elizabeth's. She waves it around wildly, trying to keep it from burning to a cinder.
The Mennonite kids still know all the old games. As the little ones chase each other, laughing and falling down in the gathering twilight, Nix feels a pang of nostalgia for a way of life that even she is not old enough to have experienced first hand. And then she realizes there's really no reason for nostalgia. The old ways have returned. It's happening right in front of her eyes.
When it's fully dark, Cash and several others begin to light sparklers for the little kids, who run around waving them and screaming madly.
Nix squints into the darkness. All this yelling has to carry for miles around the place. Why didn't she think about posting extra sentries?
“Want a sparkler?” Cash asks, appearing out of the shadows with Martin at his side.
“Sure,” Nix says. “I'll take it up on the roof and wave it around—just in case somebody's out there and missed the bonfire.”
“The guys are taking turns patrolling the perimeter,” Cash says. “But hey, why don't you take over since you're not having a good time anyway?”
She's finally succeeded in pissing him off, but whatever he's about to add is interrupted by Martin, begging for another sparkler.
“You can have two more, buddy,” Cash tells him. “Nix doesn't want hers."
Martin stands with one in each hand as Nix lights them with her Zippo, then Cash scoops the kid onto his shoulder.
“Whoooo!” Martin screams and Nix winces. “I'm a dragon! My eyes are made of fire!” he yells, as Cash lifts him even higher.
They move toward the other kids, and Nix is left in the flickering shadows at the outer edge of the firelight. Although she can't exactly imagine what her own expression must be at this moment, she's glad no one can see her. She's saved from this rare moment of self-awareness when a young giant approaches her. Though only ten team members came to live at the farm, sometimes Nix thinks they're multiplying.
“Excuse me, ma'am, am I interrupting?”
There it is, those down home, gosh-a-mighty Southern manners rubbing off on everyone.
“Don't call me ma'am,” Nix says, as she peers at him in the dim light. “I'm already the world's oldest woman. I don't need to be reminded of the fact.”
His face falls and she realizes he's taken her literally. She's beginning to find out how few people around here understand, let alone appreciate, her brand of humor.
“Lighten up, kid. That was a joke." When he continues to stand there, unsure of what to say, she adds, “My name is Nix. Call me that.”
“I will—Nix. From now on." He trails off.
“I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I don't know your name—there are a lot of you.”
“You're a seriously big guy,” she adds. “I can't believe I missed you in the crowd." This time she smiles widely to show she's kidding. “Just how tall are you, by the way?”
“I'm six foot, three, ma—Nix. And my name is Eric Larson.”
“Pleased to meet you, Eric.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Eric stammers. Seeing Nix nod, he says, “I notice nobody really bothers with last names here. Is there a reason for that?”
“Huh,” Nix says. “Never really thought about it, but you're right. I guess it's 'cause we're such a small group, we don't really need them. Or maybe deep down we all know we're part of the same family now. We just haven't come up with a new name yet. ”
Eric's head is bobbing up and down. “That's it. That's exactly it! We need a name we all can share."
The kid looks like he's having a religious experience, which is making Nix uncomfortable. How does this happen? She's just trying to be friendly, but she never knows when she opens her mouth how her words will be taken. She's either channeling Satan or the Holy Mother. No one ever hears Nix. Not any more.
“What's that you've got, Eric?” she asks, changing the subject. “Is that a guitar?"
Although it looks more like a ukulele in his huge paw, she thinks to herself.
Eric grins. “Got it at Wally-World,” he says. “The price was right, that's for sure. One of the things I like about AG—going shopping without money.”
“AG?”
“After Geezer—everything’s before or after, isn't it?”
“I suppose it is,” Nix says tiredly.
“I found it the last time we were there—to get the stuff for the picnic." He shakes his head at the memory. “It was hotter than hell in that place, and the smell of rotten—” He blushes. “Sorry.”
Nix hoots. “For what? Saying 'hell'? I've had to censor my own language since I'm living with Mennonites.”
Eric risks a smile. “That George has some pretty strict ideas, doesn't he?”
She decides she doesn't want to discuss the peculiarities of George's personality with a relative newcomer. “His heart's in the right place,” Nix says. “It's just the way he was raised."
She points to the guitar again. “Can you play that thing, or are you just going to carry it around until you find a music teacher?”
This time Eric laughs right away. “I took lessons when I was in junior high, and I played in a garage band. I'd say I'm just OK, but one of the things we all miss the most is music, so I thought I might try and make some.”
“Great idea,” Nix says and is surprised to find she really means it. “Music was just everywhere, wasn't it? Whether you wanted to listen or not. But I know exactly what you mean. A world without music is kind of—two dimensional.”
“Yeah! Exactly! ”
“Well,” Nix says, “What do you say we get a sing-along going around the campfire?”
“That would be great,” Eric agrees enthusiastically.
“Do you know 99 Bottles of Beer On the Wall?” Nix asks, straight faced.
Eric looks down at her. “You're messing with my head now, aren't you?”
“Yup.”
The party is winding down. Everyone's stretched out around the fire, mesmerized by the flames, but they sit up straighter when Eric strides through the bodies on the ground and sits down on a log. With no apparent nervousness, he strums a chord or two, pauses and tightens a string. There's a moment of silence before he begins to play. An owl hoots and the fire's sparks spiral upward on the breeze, and it feels like—peace.
It takes Nix a second to recognize the opening chords, and there's a lump in her throat as Eric begins to softly sing the familiar words:
“O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties,
Above the fruited plain - “
They all get to their feet, without discussion, with no prompting that Nix can see, and place their hands over their hearts like it's the national anthem. Eric's voice disappears into the chorus of voices.
“America! America!
God shed his grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood,
From sea to shining sea!”
Nix stops singing. Her throat is choked with tears she refuses to let escape. She doesn't know if she wants to cry for their damaged country, or because she remembers teenagers at a baseball game. They’d refused to sing the Star-spangled Banner, but instead laughed at all the suckers who did. For the first time it occurs to her that they may all be in a better place than they were a year ago.
After the fire has burned down to glowing coals and Eric has announced that Nix wants to hear her favorite song, they serenade her with a rousing chorus of 99 Bottles before the party finally breaks up.
“Hold up a tic,” Nix calls to Cash as she catches sight of him walking away.
He stands and waits for her to come to him.
“Just wanted to thank you for the picnic. Heard it was your idea.”
He jams his hands in his pockets. “The kids seemed to enjoy it.”
“So did I,” she says sheepishly.
“Could have fooled me.”
“I enjoy things quietly. So sue me.”
“For what?” he asks. “All your problems are already mine.”