Love, Carry My Bags

by Everett, C. R.

  “#47’s my second calf,” Kurt explained. “My first one died and I had to start over for 4-H. Her name was Billie Jean.” Kurt looked almost moved to tears. “I’ve been afraid to name this one.”

  “Died?” I asked.

  “We found her dead in the pasture with her throat slit, KKK painted on her side,” Sarah said.

  “We couldn’t figure out what the KKK would have against cows.” Kurt kicked some hay, clearly re-living some frustration.

  I remembered a freakish story my dad had told me shortly after he moved into the parsonage. “My dad said that Pastor Green, the pastor before us, had stopped by asking if he could get into the attic because he had left something up there. So my dad let him in, but the guy didn’t find anything.”

  “What’d he leave?” Sarah interrupted. I held up my index finger, asking her to wait.

  “My dad thought that was weird, so he told the church secretaries about it and they started laughing.”

  Kurt and Sarah glanced at each other, wondering what this had to do with anything.

  “Because they had cleaned out the attic before my dad moved in and they found a KKK uniform.”

  Kurt and Sarah looked at each other in shocked disbelief. My stomach felt ill, more so than when I had heard the story the first time. I looked into #47’s innocent face and tried not to think of the time in eighth grade when we dissected a cow’s eye. Kurt pierced the silence that hung sickeningly in the air.

  “Pastor Green was a Klansman!” Kurt kicked a bale harder, causing #47 to startle. I pet her soothingly on her head, between her eyes.

  Sarah shuddered at the small-town dirty little secret, revealed. “Good thing he’s dead,” she said.

  “They should have pulled the plug on him sooner,” Kurt said, referring to the state Pastor Green was in after the still unsolved hit-and-run that ultimately did him in.

  We sat quietly together, each wondering how else our world wasn’t what we thought it was, then stuffed those thoughts deeply away and moved on.

  “We’re going to New York this summer with YF,” Sarah said. “Wanna come?” Kurt nodded, his eyes seconding her invitation, waiting for my answer.

  I pulled my fingers from the calf’s mouth, wondered where to wipe the slobber, then chose Kurt’s pants.

  “What, and leave #47 behind?” I teased, ruffling her ears.

  * * *

  A tourist bus took us to the main New York City sights: the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the United Nations complex, even the Bowery. Our tour guide took the microphone. “Where is everyone from today?” she asked.

  Various people raised their hands and shouted out their origins. One man, seated way in the back, said with an accent, “Australia!” Aussie pride permeated the word. My ears perked up like a dog hearing an impossible-to-resist rabbit.

  The bus driver turned the corner then stopped in front of a streetside shopping district. “Chinatown,” he announced. We disembarked, entered a tourist shop. I wandered through the aisles and displays listening for Australian accents, seeking out the people from Down Under, almost hunting them down. Memories of the 1983 Newport, Rhode Island America’s Cup yacht race and winged keel euphoria burning through my veins added to my adrenaline rush. I noticed a lady with a Union Jack- and Southern Cross-emblazoned shopping bag.

  “You must be the couple from Australia,” I said to them, almost like they were movie stars and I was starstruck.

  “Yes. And where are you from?” the man inquired, genuinely seeming interested.

  “Illinois. I’m here with a youth group.”

  “I see.” He looked down the aisle at Sarah and Kurt, who were trying on Chinese masks, scaring tourist children.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Australia. I’m hoping to be an exchange student there some day.”

  “I hope you do,” the Australian man said, his words filled with encouragement. “What’s your name?”

  “Camryn.”

  “I hope you do, Camryn. And when you do, look us up, won’t you?”

  “Sure.” I said, but not really sure. Perfect strangers from Australia on a bus in New York were inviting me over?

  We again boarded the bus. The tour guide droned on with New York City facts she must have repeated a thousand times. I hardly listened. I bubbled over with excitement about my new Australian friends. At the end of the excursion, the Australian woman handed me a slip of paper.

  Randall and Judy Underwood

  5654 James Street

  Green Valley, NSW 2168

  “Keep in touch,” Judy said. And she meant it.

  * * *

  The New York trip strengthened my bond with my YF friends, yet, YF’s religious aspect stunk, in my teenage opinion. For appearances sake, if nothing else, the minister’s family participated in church events. It was the law. Or it seemed that way to me. The law required attending church every Sunday, choir practice, youth group, special services, fundraisers, etc. with little or no reprieve. Sometimes I’d feign illness just to get out of it. Our dad even missed the birth of his first child in order to conduct Sunday services. Years in retrospect, he regretted spending more time with the church family rather than the family family. Father never explicitly said we had to attend church for appearances sake. Implicit expectation dictated that we attend. The guilt motor purred loudly. Our parents exempted my older siblings from church attendance when they had jobs and needed to work, but they grew up and moved out. No longer applicable. Mother later on surmised that letting them off the hook, work or not, was a regrettable and maybe even an unforgivable sin. They would be damned to hell for sure. When I landed a part-time job, Father let me ‘sin’ too.

  Thrust upon me, youth group opened doors, creating lifelong friendships and one even longer than that. At school, between fourth and fifth hour, Sarah and I regularly exchanged notes—had been since school started five months ago. We updated each other with hot, breaking news, coordinated our social calendars, and expressed our deepest profound thoughts. Sarah handed me a note written on index cards.

  Cammie,

  I’m supposed to be doing my assignment on the solar system, so I have to look studious. I used a big word, aren’t you impressed? Oh wow! The guys just walked by from gym class. My hormones are raging. Are you going to the dance this weekend? At least to see who is or isn’t there? I want a boyfriend badly. I’m depressed. Write me a story, okay? I need something good to read—to cheer me up. I shall wipe away my tears on Uranus. See, I am doing my homework.

  What am I going to do next year with you gone? Exchange student, what are you thinking?

  —Distressed Sarah

  * * *

  "Mail call." My stepmother, Josephine, deposited the three Australia travel brochures I had mailed away for on my desk, right on top of the two I collected from the travel agency at the mall the day before. Last week the mailman delivered four brochures, the ones from my Australian tourism '800 number’ inquiries. My mouth started salivating as I flipped through the pages. Kangaroos. Koalas. Opera House. Great Barrier Reef. Emu. Crocodiles. Coober Pedy. Opals. Tasmania and its Devils. I wanted it all, needed it for some inexplicable reason. I plastered an Opera House centerfold on my wall, right next to the kangaroo and above the koalas.

  “Camryn, phone,” Jo yelled from downstairs.

  “Got it, Jo,” I yelled back. “Hello.” I picked up the phone in my room. The phone in my room that made me feel delightfully spoiled, a phone never taken for granted.

  “Kate and I wondered if you wanted to hang out. Pizza, a movie, and stuff,” Sarah explained while crunching potato chips in my ear.

  “Sure.” Sock drawer inventory could wait.

  “We’ll pick you up in a few.”

  Sarah’s car was older, a gas hog, but hers nonetheless, and it gave our clique of ‘the averages’ a sense of freedom. Often, Sarah made the rounds picking us up for school in the mornings. The Three Moosketeers stuck together. None of us was super popular. We we
ren’t total outcasts or in the wild drug-and-alcohol crowd either.

  The horn honked outside. “I’m going to Sarah’s,” I yelled up the stairs. “Whiskers’s coming with me.” The parental units trusted me, no need to ask permission. I never overtly got into trouble or caused them to worry. I kept them informed. They let me be.

  “Whiskers wanted to come along,” I said as I slid into the back seat. “She likes playing sheep dog with your cows.” Whiskers nudged the back of Sarah’s head.

  “Hi, Whiskers,” Sarah said. She threw the heap into reverse. “I thought we’d stop by Crud’s.” Disgruntled, Sarah had renamed Eric, Crud. Her discontent nearly turned her into a stalker, but gave us daily entertainment. Earlier in the year, Eric and Kate sort of dated, but Kate was cool about it—no anxious waiting for phone calls, no knotted-up knickers.

  “He’s there. He’s there. He’s there!” Sarah screamed, flooring it before Crud saw us, a normal occurrence. We usually drove around town, making the rounds, spying on the interesting boys’ homes—they, unaware. Often, we spoke in code referring to Crud’s hangout—Eric Bancroft’s Farm Implement—as ‘The Place’ so no one else understood. Eric claimed he owned the business even though he was really a Jr.

  I looked back. “John’s truck’s there too.”

  Kate screamed. Her flavor of the month and Crud were friends.

  “I’ll ask John why Crud’s been so mean lately,” she said.

  “Yeah, and find out what they’re doing this weekend,” Sarah said, happy to get answers. “And find out if he really likes me or what.” She looked strung out between the glorious prospect of spending time with Crud and the hurt of being jerked around.

  We group dated often, but when those one-on-ones came around, we demanded a full report. The interrogation began. “So Kate, how did it go with John last night?” Sarah quizzed.

  “Fine.” Kate fancied secrecy over spilling juicy details. She smirked. We all directed our ears her way, straining for information tidbits. “We talked.” She smirked again. It was hard to tell if Kate was withholding vital information or just leading us to believe there was more to tell.

  By this time, we had already arrived at Reese’s house and picked him up to join us. He sat in the back seat. Whiskers’ wet, black nose bumped Reese’s elbow, then she licked his arm.

  “She likes you,” I said. He scratched behind her ears. Satisfied, she took the window seat, forcing me closer to Reese. He casually listened to us press Kate for details, laughing. He was quiet, blending into the discussion, posing none of the usual opposite-sex threat. Sarah rounded the last corner sharply, causing me to on-purpose squish Reese against the door. “Oops,” I said, smiling. Whiskers pressed her paws into my arm, getting in on the action. She reached her head across mine, showering Reese with doggie kisses, me smushed in between.

  “Come smell our dairy air,” Sarah announced as we pulled into her driveway, then snorted in laughter, which tickled the rest of us too. Whiskers bounded out of the car as soon as it stopped, heading straight to the calf pens, sniffing smells that were new to her every time.

  “Honey, we’re home,” Sarah called, continuing to be funny.

  Kurt pulled pizzas out of the oven as we walked in. “Hey,” Reese said.

  “Hey,” Kurt replied, their traditional exchange.

  Sarah started up Porky’s as we all helped ourselves and settled around the TV. Her parents were gone, unable to disapprove our R-rated video. “Mmmmm. Pizza.” Kurt did his best caveman imitation.

  “Mmmmm. Pizza,” Reese echoed, a male bonding thing. Kate shot me a look, red-faced, as the guys on the movie were mentioning the desires of their nether regions. I pretended not to notice the uncomfortableness of the polar sexes even though there was a butterfly loose in my stomach. I stretched out on the couch and used Reese’s lap as a footrest, my eyes focused on the movie. He looked at me, unbothered.

  “The party has arrived!” Victor barged in, making his presence known. He surveyed the room and its occupants, then took a seat furthest from me. I squirmed inside. He’d given me a homecoming carnation, asked me to dance at a social, and had planted other seeds of interest. Victor, Kate’s cousin and friend of John and Crud, occasionally joined our assemblage. The last time, he had tickled me and carried me across the street to his car. I was smitten and began stalker mode in spite of the fact that right after deer season opened, he showed up at school with his fresh bow-and-arrow kill draped over his car. He thought it cool, drinking its blood, just like in the movie Red Dawn.

  At Christmas time, I had painstakingly created a handmade felt Christmas card for Victor, complete with a thin brown teddy bear stuffed with emotional viscera. I implanted a red felt heart and sewed him up. Under cover of darkness, my accomplice, Sarah, and I conducted a covert operation to deliver the card, which was concealed in a gift box.

  “Wait here,” I had said, hopping out of the passenger seat. With heart pounding, I ran to his parked jeep. Thankfully, it was unlocked, so I placed the package on the front seat, closed the door and ran, breathless. Shaking with nervous fright and elation, I jumped back into the car. Sarah sped off.

  “What did I do? What did I do?” I was screaming, laughing, relieved, and ready to be sick all at the same time.

  “You’re crazy,” Sarah said, hysterical with laughter.

  We calmed down over chocolate ice cream.

  Later, when Sarah did her routine surveillance, she observed Victor take the box over to Crud’s place, throw the teddy bear on the ground, and stomp it in the muddy snow. He stomped my heart.

  Here he was, and I, embarrassed, hurt, and bewildered. How could he possibly have led me on like that? And then throw it all in my face? I was clueless. Reese knew all about these happenings as he heard Sarah’s report first hand. He disappeared into the background when we girl talked, but sometimes we asked him for advice—from a male perspective. Usually the answer we got was “I don’t know,” and a little snicker.

  Remembering all this, I felt vulnerable being stretched out on the couch, and adjusted myself. I turned around the other direction so instead of my feet resting on Reese’s lap, my elbows were, my hands propping up my head. I looked up at Reese with a ho-hum guise and continued watching the movie. Reese seemed anxious, but didn’t throw me off or ask me to move. He scanned my backside. I was oblivious.

  I never considered myself much to look at, but wanted to be. At 110 pounds and just over five and a half feet tall, I believed I had a big butt. I certainly had no chest, and zits were a constant battle. It wasn’t the disfiguring kind of acne, but the generally distracting and annoying kind. I tried everything to solve the problem—routine zit popping, hydrogen peroxide, milk of magnesia facials, rubbing alcohol, salicylic acid, etc. Nothing worked. It was an inherited genetic defect. My whole body was a genetic defect as far as I was concerned. My eyes turned two shades of brown—another abnormality to live with. As a baby, I had one blue eye and one brown, just like some dogs. I spent a good share of time trying to restore my darkening blonde hair to its previous light blonde state. And I purged, and starved, but not in a major way. I mean, I was never institutionalized or anything. Mother even told me I was just average looking. Not that being average was a bad thing, but a real mother should tell her children they are pretty even if she just means on the inside.

  When the movie was over, our gathering disbanded.

  “What did you do New Year’s Eve?” Sarah asked as she drove us home.

  “Worked,” Kate droned. “Waitressing is so much fun,” she said, stuffing her finger down her throat in a mock gag.

  “I was out of town,” Sarah said, screwing up her nose in revulsion, “with my parents.”

  “I didn’t do much,” Reese said matter-of-factly. “I sat home watching TV by myself.”

  “So did I,” I said, slightly stunned with coincidence. “You should have come over!” I sighed. Hanging-out time, wasted.

  Neither of us was much into the drinking and
party scene. Our group of friends, for the most part, accepted this perceived quirk. Sarah and Kurt were finding their identities, searching in wine bottles now and then. Victor, Crud, and John tried to be bad with beer. Kate imbibed socially on occasion.

  “Come to the basketball game on Tuesday,” Kate suggested. “We can be Reese and Kurt’s athletic supporters.”

  Reese blushed. Reese was the only one who actually played, Kurt relegated to water boy after tripping over his own feet one too many times during a game.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I said, ramming Reese even though we hadn’t turned a corner.

  “Go Hornets!” Kate yelled. “Woo hoo! I’ll meet you after the game. I have to play in pep band.”

  “Hornets are great. Goin’ down state,” Sarah chanted. We all chimed in. It was easy to get caught up in the enthusiasm, the team undefeated, state championship tournament in sight.

  CHAPTER 3

  TO A STRANGER.

  Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I

  look upon you,

  You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it

  comes to me, as of a dream,)

  I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,

  All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate,

  chaste, matured,

  You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl

  with me,

  I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has be-

  come not yours only, nor left my body mine only,

  You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as

  we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands,

  in return,

  I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I

  sit alone, or wake at night alone,

  I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,

  I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

  —Walt Whitman

  Sarah wrote me a note on paper ripped from its spiral, edge frayed. Sarah scrawled, Figure this out! at the top of the page. Sarah-style encryption followed. The note made no sense when read line by line, but decipherable when read every other line to the bottom and then back up to the second line, reading every other line again. Sarah’s decoded note read: