Muffin But Trouble

by Victoria Hamilton

  “Never mind,” she said. “Don’t freak out.”

  “Fine. Let’s put a pin in this conversation.” I backed up onto the road and headed at a sedate pace. “Put Julian on speaker phone.” I cast a side glance at her and saw the rolled eyes—between the two of us we were going to sprain our eye sockets—and said, “Do it now, Lizzie, do not give me that look!”

  Julian’s voice erupted out of her cell phone, which she put in the bracket on my dash as she sat back, arms crossed over her chest, to sulk.

  “Ms. Wynter?” His reedy voice intoned from the tiny speaker of the cell phone. “Where are you?”

  “In the driver’s seat of my car with a sulky Lizzie, who should know better than to grab at a steering wheel while someone is driving,” I said, my tone taut with the aggravation I was still feeling. I took in a deep breath, threw her a look, which she lobbed back at me with a volley of teen sneer, which she would have to grow out of soon enough.

  “No, dude, I mean, like . . . where are you?” Julian said. “Like, what road?”

  I calmed myself, and told him. We were on Connaught Line, and he adroitly guided me the rest of the way; we had to turn off Connaught Line onto Marker Road. Marker Road . . . I recognized that from Urquhart’s conversation two nights before, but I had never been down it. I drove, and Lizzie gradually came out of her sulk and bundled her riotous hair into a black scrunchie. I saw a thread of smoke as we approached what he assured me was the Light and the Way Ministry compound, where he had been a few times to buy weed, I suspected, given his evasiveness and knowing Julian. He broke the connection and I stared at the phone on the dash mount.

  “That’s what he does,” Lizzie assured me, grabbing it from its holster. “It’s like text. Nobody our age says goodbye.”

  “Fine, abandon civility along with a sense of direction and good music.” I parked along the roadside, got out of the car and examined the scene. If I hadn’t known what I was looking at I would have overlooked it completely. From the road there was a rise, and atop that a long sagging wire mesh fence, so old it was rusting out in spots. A lane crossed the ditch, and at the top was a wood and wire mesh gate. A faded No Trespassing sign—not very welcoming for a religious organization—was attached to a fencepost with a multitude of other hand-lettered signs. The Light and the Way Ministery, one announced. You made it to salivation! another boldly proclaimed. All who seek salivation are wellcome! yet another shrieked. That appeared to contradict the No Trespassing sign.

  I could seek salvation, though maybe not salivation. It wouldn’t hurt me to have a little insurance against future misdeeds. We climbed the rise. I examined the encampment in the distance, beginning about fifty yards back from the fence. At first I saw some weather-beaten sheds in the distance, and a few sagging tents. It could have been an off-season low-rent campground. But there were a couple of curling threads of smoke hanging in the hazy air, one drifting from a metal smokestack poking out of the corrugated tin roof of a long ramshackle shed.

  “I guess this is it,” I said. I could see people, but I was too far away to make any individual person out.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Lizzie replied, joining me at the gate. She had her camera, of course, and began shooting pictures.

  “I’m going in.” I glanced over at Lizzie but she was busy snapping photos. “You can wait out here, if you’d prefer.”

  “Hell no,” she said. “I came here to find Alcina.”

  She shimmied between the chained gate and the fence post. I tried the same, but it took more of a seismic event rather than a mere shimmy to get my thicker curves through. Under the chain, first one breast, then the other, and then my butt. Wiggle wiggle wiggle, like my dance floor moves, with Lizzie doubled over with laughter on the other side. And finally, with many pulls and tugs and a snagged blouse, I made it, straightened and dusted my jeans off, then looked along the trail, a beaten-down meandering pathway through long weeds.

  “Let’s see where this takes us,” I said. It was like we were about to discover a lost tribe. I hoped they’d be friendly. I took the lead along the path, while Lizzie snapped photos. I was a little worried about that and finally said over my shoulder, “Maybe you’d better not take pictures until we see someone and talk to them. They may not like it.” My advice was fated to be ignored, as usual.

  We approached the encampment, a collection of buildings and tents, with women engaged in many tasks. In the center was an open firepit with a smoldering heap of ash in the middle. Wind kept whipping flutters of ash on the breeze. There were two Quonset huts toward the back, one painted blue and with a cross atop the barn-type doorway, and another painted red, with windows along the side. The paint was peeling and there was trash heaped along the wall—car tires, lumber, rotting piles of construction materials—as well as overgrown weeds everywhere, turned yellow and dried out this late in the year. Paths crisscrossed among these buildings.

  Now that I was closer I could see that there were a couple more shacks farther back, both with cement block steps up into them, as well as a lean-to or three. An ancient rusted-out pickup truck was parked under a shelter by one particularly disreputable hut, farthest back of all the buildings. It appeared more deeply mired in the landscape than the others, with a special abandoned feel to it, like something out of a teen horror slasher flick. It was overtaken by ambitious brambles, bittersweet and blackberry bushes growing along the base and scrambling over the roof.

  We were being watched. Multiple women had stopped in their tasks and were eyeing us uneasily, their attitude one of caution. Some darted glances over toward a lean gray-bearded man who lounged in the doorway of a hut that was to the right of the blue Quonset; he smoked a pipe and watched us. He wore a long robe like a dashiki, only plain colored, with the hood pulled up over his head. I stayed aware of him, just in case, not liking something about his stare.

  I kept expecting to be confronted and warned off, as Reverend Maitland had been. But maybe being a woman helped. I shrugged off the uneasy feeling that crept up my spine. A group of children and women in a circle sang a song; it seemed tuneless and wordless, a nonsense chant. I thought that the women in that circle were our best chance of meeting someone who would give us information.

  As we strolled in their direction, I took in the sights, smells and sounds. Someone was hammering. I paused and let my gaze travel. I saw a distant hut and a skinny fellow wearing a hoodie under a heavy jean jacket atop it, hammering roof tiles in various colors—leftovers, perhaps—in even rows. He looked somewhat familiar; I thought it might be Gordy.

  I turned and watched the women for a minute. They had stopped chanting and were going off in twos and threes to workstations, as the children scrambled off to hide, watching us from behind posts and buildings. One woman hauled a heavy pot to the ashy firepit and sat the pot on the ring of rocks, then headed off to get something else, her expression grim. Others headed to one of the Quonset huts. It seemed to me that they were aware of us but studiously avoiding us.

  Who should I talk to? Lizzie, despite my warning, was strolling the encampment taking photos. That made me uneasy, but I’d handle any trouble as it came. I inhaled deeply. The pervading scent was woodsmoke, undercut by an odor of garbage drifting on the breeze. And cooking, and a soapy smell. And . . . my nose twitched. Body odor.

  I whirled. “Gordy!” I squeaked, startled. The roofing fellow was indeed my friend and occasional employee, Gordy Shute. He had crept up on me so quickly I was startled, my heart pounding. Lizzie returned to my side and eyed our friend, examining him closely.

  “Merry, how are you?”

  I stared. Normally I would have reached out and hugged a friend I hadn’t seen in a while, but I held back. He seemed . . . different. He met my gaze; he stood tall; he smiled.

  Weird. His usual demeanor was so retiring, so shy. His gaze usually slid off into the distance and he never smiled. He always seemed too anxious to smile. Another guy approached and eyed Lizzie with smirking interest. I wante
d to tell him to back off, but my teenage friend can look after herself. She stared him down and he looked away.

  “I’m good, Gordy. Who is this?” I asked, though I thought I already knew. I recognized the lout.

  “This is my buddy, Nathan,” Gordy said.

  Lizzie drifted away, looking back at me, and then escaping, a woman on a mission. I hoped she didn’t get in trouble. “Hi, Nathan. You worked for Turner Construction.” He was a nice-looking fellow, with a thick thatch of brown hair and big brown eyes. “I remember you working on the foundation of one of our houses at the castle.”

  He didn’t say a word, just stared at me with a slight sneer on his lip. I supposed that he would know I was instrumental in getting him fired after he stalked Shilo.

  “So, how are you, Gordy?” I asked, turning my attention back to my friend. “Zeke and Hannah haven’t seen you in a while. They’re worried about you.” The breeze picked up again and flipped my long hair into my face. I picked stray hairs out of my lipstick.

  “Why would they be worried?” Nathan asked. “They’re the ones who ditched him.”

  I shifted my gaze and stared at him for a moment. He was about the same age as Gordy, and his face should have been pleasant-looking, except for that sneer and something in his eyes, an expression of . . . derision, I decided. I looked back to my friend. “You don’t think that, do you, Gordy?”

  “Yeah, well, they did ditch me. Too busy all the time. Last I saw him all I asked was if Zeke wanted to go play pinball but he was too busy. He didn’t have time for me.”

  I was not prepared for this harsh answer from humble, sweet Gordy. “I don’t know anything about that. I know that Zeke is worried because you two had an argument and he hasn’t seen you since.”

  He shrugged. “He’s got his life, I got mine. No big.”

  “But he’s been your best friend your whole lives.”

  A glimmer of moisture in his eyes proved it was a big deal. He did care, but he didn’t want to show it, especially in front of Nathan. Maybe there was hope. “They thought you might have moved out here, so I said I’d come and say hi. You and Nathan living together out here?”

  “Yeah. Folks here get me. I’m not some weirdo.”

  I glanced over at Nathan and caught that look of derision on his face. I wasn’t so sure that was true. A young girl drifted over, waited a yard away for Gordy to beckon, then joined him, sheltering under his left arm. Nathan watched the girl, a hungry look in his brown eyes. For all his good looks there was something off-kilter about him. Something unappealing. I noticed how the girl chose the opposite side of Gordy, away from Nathan, and when that fellow edged around to be beside her, she slipped around Gordy and nudged under his right arm instead.

  “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “This is Peaches,” he said, hugging her close. She looked up at him with a trusting gaze.

  I stared. It was like an alien had abducted Gordy, installed new programming, and gently set him down in the Light and Way Ministry compound, full of confidence and charisma. “And she is . . . ?”

  “My girlfriend,” he said proudly, hugging her to him.

  Chapter Six

  Girlfriend? That was a first, as far as I knew. Gordy had never had much luck with the ladies.

  Nathan’s eyes flicked away and his lips firmed. I wondered how he felt about that; was he jealous of the relationship? And why, because of Peaches, that she had chosen Gordy over him, or because it took Gordy’s time away from him?

  “Hello, Peaches.” I examined her; she was a pretty girl, slim, light brown hair almost down to her waist. She wore a long lavender dress over combat boots that looked too big for her.

  She looked up at him and he nodded. Shyly, she looked in my direction, not meeting my eyes, and said, “Hi.”

  “How old are you, Peaches?”

  “Why are you asking?” Gordy said.

  I eyed him warily. There was an undertone of suspicion in his voice, and his expression had turned challenging. I turned my gaze back to her. “How old are you, Peaches?”

  Her eyes widened, and she shook her head.

  “I gotta get back to work,” Gordy said. He twisted and pointed at the shack he was roofing. “I gotta get it roofed. We’re getting married, and we’ll need someplace warm for winter!”

  “You’re getting married?” I exclaimed. “Really?”

  “Sure.” He looked down at the young girl.

  “What’s so weird about that?” Nathan said, tension in his whole body. He looked pugnacious, ready for a fight. “It’s every man’s duty to procreate.”

  “Procreate. Is that what marriage is all about?” I turned away, done with him. “Gordy, are you sure about this? What does your Uncle Rich say?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t seen him all summer.”

  “But you work for him. Doesn’t he count on you during the harvest?”

  Nathan said, “What’s it to you?”

  I took a deep, long breath, restraining a retort. Now was not the moment to start a quarrel.

  “Peaches, you run along now,” Gordy said to his girlfriend. He cupped his hand over her shoulder and gave her a gentle push. “Be a good girl and go on with the other women and make lunch.” It was said with tender condescension, but she seemed not to mind or even notice anything wrong with his tone. She shot Nathan a wary look, then nodded and obediently drifted away, toward one of the Quonset huts.

  “Gordy, I have to ask . . . are you sure about what you’re doing. Are you . . . are you living with her now as man and wife?”

  He huffed and gave me a stern look. “That wouldn’t be right, Merry. We’re not married yet. She lives with the women and kids, of course.”

  “And they live . . . where?”

  He motioned to the red Quonset. “In the women’s quarters, of course.”

  Everything was “of course,” like I should know. “Okay. Well, that’s all . . . okay.”

  “I gotta go,” he said abruptly. “Tell Zeke I said hi.” He turned away with Nathan and started walking back toward the shack they were roofing.

  “Gordy, wait!”

  He paused and turned back to me. He actually looked taller, I thought, and broader-shouldered, toughened by a summer of hard outdoor work. He held himself differently. I was worried and upset, but I couldn’t figure out quite why. He looked happy, and healthy. He had a girlfriend and seemed balanced, sane, content. And why he was all those things were none of my business. However . . . “How are you, really? And what is this place?”

  “My new home. Why, Merry? What’s it to you?”

  I was taken aback by his challenging tone. I frowned and examined his face. “It’s not like you to . . . to divorce yourself from all your friends.”

  “Friends? Sheeple, you mean,” he said, with the first hint of anger in his tone. “Can’t tell them anything truthful, they all laugh.” His eyes darkened. “They laugh at me. But when Armageddon begins, we’ll have the last laugh.”

  Armageddon. That’s what I was tuning into, what was worrying me; there was a coldness belying his smile, gentle voice and openness, a chill that had never been there before. “You . . . you can’t be serious, Gordy. What do you mean, Armageddon, and the last laugh?”

  “My eyes have been opened. I mean, I knew there was stuff not right in this world, like the way women are, and how they laugh at men, and torment them. But I never knew how to put it into words.”

  Nathan was right there with him. “Yeah, women got to know their place. And there’s too much . . . too much of women being the boss of us. It’s not right. It’s not natural.”

  I felt sick, but steadfastly ignored Nathan, focusing on my friend. “Gordy, the other day I was harassed in Ridley Ridge by someone from here, a guy named Barney. He called me a jezebel. Is that okay with you? Him treating me that way?” My friend had turned his body away, as if unwilling to listen, but he flinched. “Gordy, I know you’re listening to me. One of your fellow . . . campers, whate
ver you want to call them, called me a jezebel and berated me. You don’t go along with that, do you?”

  “No, of course not, I mean . . .” Gordy had turned back toward me and looked somewhat like his old self. He was troubled. He looked off into the distance, his gaze roaming over the odd collection of sheds and tents. “That’s just Barney. It’s the way he is. He’s . . . he’s a bit of a crackpot. Don’t mind him.”

  “Don’t mind him?” I said, my voice rising in anger. “I don’t appreciate being berated on a public street and called a jezebel. I know you better than that; the Gordy I know would never allow that to be said to a woman. Do you hear yourself? He called me a jezebel. He literally said I was going to hell for wearing pants and makeup. Please tell me you don’t believe that.”

  Nathan headed off at a trot toward the man still lounging in the door of the hut, watching us.

  Gordy shook his head, sighed and shuffled his feet, a little of his old uncertainty drifting to the surface. The man who had been lounging in the doorway smoking now walked toward us, ambling, hands in his pockets, trailed by Nathan. I knew where I had seen him before; he was the driver of the van that picked up Barney.

  “Look, Merry, I already said Barney is a crackpot,” Gordy said swiftly, watching uneasily as the man approached. “Prophet Voorhees lets us all believe whatever we want, and—”

  “Wait, what? Prophet Voorhees? Who or what is that?”

  He sighed again, and then looked over his shoulder at the man ambling closer. “He brings us the word of God, the raw, masculine, unadulterated word of God. It’s a hard world out there, Merry. He tells it like it is, you know, not like all the love and peace crap Reverend Maitland dishes out. The world’s not like that and the prophet is honest about it, about how the government is against us, how we’re being brainwashed in school and in church. He’s . . . he’s our leader.”