The Kingdom - Peter Collinson

The wire display stand was empty.

Rebecca awoke late the next horning to thick snowflakes drifting like downy feathers outside her room’s calico curtains. She showered until the hot water ran out, dressed, and arrived downstairs just as Mia and Robert were leaving. Bundled in mittens and mufflers, Mia gave Robert a playful punch in the back as they pushed through the doors.

Bert-and-Rita were the only ones left in the dining room. Rita was done up in a violet snowsuit, and Bert was sporting a ridiculous pair of gaiters wound to his knees. She disparaged them because she envied them. Here was a good, working marriage, two healthy people growing old together. Rebecca said “Good morning,” then fixed herself a to-go cup of coffee at the serving table, leaving them swapping sections from the local newspaper.

She took a drive around the town. The falling snow kept everything fresh and white without yet impeding movement, so that the Mountaineer rolled along confidently. Snow was the great equalizer, nature’s cream base. Even the most beautiful town in the world profited from a little touching up. It whitened out the rough edges, filled in the cracks where things were wanting, and brought to life the colors that survived its steady march — the sorrel of a tree trunk, the stark black dome of a short silo, the bright brick of a heated chimney.

Outside the town center, life was more rugged and lonely. Collapsing barns. A solitary tree wilting in a field of snow. A makeshift house constructed around a mobile home. A tractor driven by a watchcapped man of flannel and wool. Horses rooting through snowfall for food, near squatting cows, lazily watching her drive past.

She made a circuit of Gilchrist and was back at the common by noon. The Gilchrist General Store, first stop on the right as you come from the inn, was a wood-planked floor of three narrow aisles, a mix of old and new, glass bottles of Moxie and plastic half-liters of Sprite. The post office was there, a scale and a stamp machine and a government seal behind the register. In back was a selection of fishing and hunting gear, and next to the deli counter was a bulletin board of Polaroid pictures of camouflaged men, photos taken at all times of the year, hunters holding up a string of fish or kneeling in the back of an open pickup twisting the head of a dead deer toward the camera. The old man behind the meat case wore a stained smock, drying his hands on a brown paper towel.

She ordered a sandwich and stepped outside. A crowd was gathering on the snowy common, townspeople milling around the gazebo. The historic white buildings spaced around the blanketed common looked like a movie set, The Nineteenth Century New England Village backlot. Dates were printed above the doors, as though a flatlander might question their authenticity: Gilchrist Town Hall, 1854; Gilchrist Masonic Hall, 1841. Rebecca’s cynical eye sought out the anachronisms, things that would have to be framed out of the camera’s view. The snowmobiles lining the curb. The North Face jackets. A placard in the window above the general store advertising Tai Kwan Do.

Yet something about Gilchrist touched her, triggering a sense memory which, despite its authenticity, warmed her heart. It was the simple innocence of a small-town past shared by most Americans, despite their true pasts — memories assigned in seventh grade, with the first three chapters of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn . This was Rockwell’s America. Rebecca wandered over to the common with her wrapped sandwich.

The bell rang in the church steeple, calling the gathering to attention. It was a ceremony of some sort, the dedication of a bust about to be unveiled. The honoree named Tom Duggan, stood on the bandstand wearing a hangman’s coat. Rebecca remained on the edge of the crowd, biting into her sandwich discreetly and listening to a top-hatted man speaking without a microphone. He was the town historian, joined onstage by the uniformed chiefs of the police and fire departments and the selectmen and other elected officials, reciting from index cards something about the history of the penitentiary and Tom Duggan’s role in bringing it to Gilchrist. But Rebecca was more interested in the conversations around her.

One old salt in a dingy pea coat decried the turnout. “Saturday afternoon, for chrissakes.”

“Town’s changing,” sang his buddy, with the cadence of an oft-spoken refrain.

“Seen all them outer-state license plates these past coupla days?”

“How’s that?”

“Strangers riding around. At night.”

They all resembled each other in some vague way: hearty, red-cheeked, dour. Lots of beards. Kept the chin warm. Rebecca turned her attention to a middle-aged woman talking to a hard-faced neighbor.

“You heard about Lemsie?”

“Drinking again?”

“Tractor stolen last night, right out of his barn. Chief Roy don’t have no clue.”

“Like Dickie Veal’s snowplow two nights ago.” The man sheeshed . “Crime follows money, don’t it.”

“Like shit follows dessert.”

The snow was coming down harder, thick flakes rushing to the earth, the groundfall thickening and muffling sound. The bust was unveiled to applause and a few whistles — it was granite and chip-cheeked, just like Mr. Tom Duggan — and then the man of the hour began to speak, slowly and shyly. “Louder, Tom!” came the cries, and he smiled with embarrassment and opened his mouth to start over.

Instead of speech, there was a series of short horn blasts, as from an old civil-defense alarm. All heads turned toward the source, a narrow stone tower just visible behind the roof of the library.The sequence repeated, and the common hung in stunned silence for a few moments before people started to talk.

“Fire alarm.”

“That’s not the fire alarm. This one’s different.”

“Police emergency?”

“Not police either.”

“Got to be the prison.”

This last rumor spread quickly through the crowd. Rebecca saw Tom Duggan on the gazebo, one hand still resting on the crown of his granite head, which appeared stately and confident while the man himself looked bewildered.

The police and fire chief hustled down the slippery bandstand steps and strode quickly across the common. This excited no one at first, the people just milled about, confused and drifting into tighter groups as the siren blasts continued. At one point Tom Duggan tried resuming his speech, but gave up, his voice lost in the din. Then people began to disperse. They walked off in different directions with faraway eyes. Their expressions unsettled Rebecca. It was like they had all suddenly remembered last night’s shared-nightmare. She returned to her Mountaineer and eased it through the thinning crowd back to the inn.

Fern was with Kells in the parlor. She wore a loose sweat suit, he a parka and wet boots. He was standing in a small puddle of melting snow.

On the television, a local news anchor had cut in with a bulletin regarding a disturbance at the prison at Gilchrist.

“Oh, my,” said Fern, her small hand going to her mouth.

“What have they said?” asked Rebecca, but Kells shushed her.

The anchor said that a small group of inmates had reportedly seized control of the prison Command Center.

“The Command Center,” said Rebecca.

Kells turned. “What’s that?”

“The brain of the prison. They control everything from there.”

Kells returned to the television for more news, but they were cutting back to a talk show.

Noises at the front door, others returning. Fern looked up with a start. “I better get some tea on,” she said, making for the kitchen.

Rebecca was excited. She followed Fern as far as the sitting room, as though expecting a messenger, but it was only Dark returning, shaking snow off an orchid mohair scarf. “What is that god-awful noise ?”