Kristen Simmons - Article 5

The Loftons had money.

They weren’t rich. In fact, they probably had less than we’d had when my mother still had a job. There wasn’t even a television in the living room. But there was a glass vase and a decorative lamp on the end table, toys and books lying around, and extra clothes cluttering the floor that the boy—Ronnie—had shed at some earlier time. These were all things I would have sold when we’d been in a tight spot. The fact that they hadn’t needed to meant that they were doing significantly better than most of the country.

The kitchen had a skylight centered above an island. The walls were painted burgundy, and the towels and utensils on the counter were all fashionably black. A delicious salty scent emanated from an oversized slow cooker atop the marble counter. It had been a long time since I’d had meat; the soup kitchens never carried it, and with standardized power we couldn’t maintain a fridge. It took everything I had not to stuff my face in the cooker. The familiar hum of a generator outside distracted me.

I couldn’t tell if my stomach gripped from hunger or the sudden onslaught of nerves. A generator? They were commonplace in businesses, but not in private homes. Who were these people, friends of the president? They obviously made a good living; the price of beef was sky-high.

“Honey!” called Patrick. “Mary Jane! It’s all right, come on out!” He placed his keys in a ceramic bowl beside the fridge.

I heard a lock click down the hallway, and a door pushed open over carpet.

“When there’s trouble, the family hides in the basement,” Patrick explained. Ronnie ran back into the kitchen and slid across the linoleum floor on socked feet. “Well, most of the family,” Patrick added under his breath.

“Does this happen a lot?” I asked him.

“More than I’d like,” he responded bitterly. “Once every few months, less often when it’s freezing out. The pistol, that was new,” he added, his expression bleak.

“Ronnie? He’s still with you?” A petite woman bounded urgently into the room. She had ginger-colored hair, cut sharply at her chin, and was wearing an argyle sweater and jeans. She was quite stunning, not at all the plain rancher’s wife I’d pictured, and made me acutely aware of how dirty Chase and I were from days of tramping through the wilderness. She stopped abruptly when she saw us.

Patrick introduced us, quickly explaining the situation. A blush lit her cheeks. Unconsciously, she began running her hands through her son’s hair. He leaned against her leg like a purring cat.

“Welcome… Goodness, welcome,” she said finally. “And thank you.”

“I thought Jacob and Elizabeth might like to stay for dinner.” At Patrick’s suggestion, my stomach rumbled again. “They’ve got family in Lewisburg. I’ve offered them a ride in the morning.”

Morning?

“You… sure. I mean, absolutely,” Mary Jane said, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound ungrateful. “I was thinking we were going to Lewisburg tonight.” I looked out the window. It wasn’t completely dark yet.

“My uncle hasn’t been well,” Chase added.

Patrick frowned.

“It’s illegal to travel after curfew. Besides, after all you’ve done…”

The way he said illegal made my spine tingle. Patrick clearly followed the rules. I stepped stealthily on Chase’s toes, and he nodded once, without looking my way, in silent confirmation.

We had no choice but to stay the night—or at least make them think we were staying the night—unless we wanted to risk them contacting the MM for a curfew violation. They did have a generator, which meant a working phone after dark. Their obedience frightened me.

Mary Jane faked a smile. “Don’t you dare argue. You’re staying, and in the morning I’ll drive you to Lewisburg myself. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

They wouldn’t. That much was clear.

“That’s very nice,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound too grim.

In confirmation of my ragged appearance, Mary Jane hustled me into their bathroom with a tattered old towel that she pulled from the washroom and a bar of soap. Chase followed with our bag. I knew he was getting a layout of the house, the exits.

“They’re awfully friendly,” I whispered while he washed his hands. “We could be serial killers for all they know.”

He made a small sound of agreement in the back of his throat.

“We can’t stay until morning,” I informed him. But my bloody, blistered feet, and the cramping muscles in my lower back and calves argued otherwise.

He didn’t answer, his mood black again, and I found myself resentful that he put on such a happy face for strangers while I got the silent treatment. The moment between us outside had obviously been lost, and that hurt more than I cared to admit.

As he stalked out of the bathroom, I saw his eyes lift to scan their oversized dresser and plush gold comforter with interest. Surely he didn’t mean to steal anything. Not while they were in the next room.

The water was warm, thanks to the generator, and soothed my aching body while I scrubbed away the layers of grime. Even so, I couldn’t relax. I didn’t like not knowing what was happening in the rest of the house.

I changed quickly, making sure my boots were on tight just in case we needed to make a quick exit, and checked my hair in the mirror. The short length of it shocked me; since Chase had cut it I hadn’t had the chance to grow accustomed to my reflection. Now wet, I could see the uneven patches where his knife had gone astray. Frowning, I knelt to search the backpack for my hair tie, but my hand stalled on the outer pocket.

Why did Chase never allow me to look through the bag? He’d insisted on getting everything I needed from it himself. There had to be something he was hiding.

I glanced toward the door, now worried that he might come back to check on me. When I strained my ears I only heard the sounds of Ronnie playing with his toy trucks in the living room. I pulled open the thick copper zipper.

The top layer in the pack was clothing, rolled economically to a more compact size. Most of it was damp from when the weather had soaked through the canvas the other day. Beneath, I found my hair tie, which I automatically latched around my wrist, and matches, a flashlight, the dreaded nightstick, a plastic box of soap, and some other toiletries. I came upon a plastic Ziploc bag, filled with cash. My jaw dropped as I flipped through the bills. All twenties. Nearly five thousand dollars. How long had Chase been saving?

My hand bumped into something else. A Statute circular, rubber-banded around something rectangular and hard. The band slid off easily, and the paper unfolded at the creases, revealing a paperback novel, stuffed thick with folded papers.

My heart thudded against my ribs. The worn cover read Frankenstein.

“WHAT is it about that book?” His tone was mildly teasing.

I set it on my nightstand and watched him wander around my room. He picked things up carefully. Set them down. Wiped them off if he left a fingerprint. Since the War he’d never really known what to do with possessions.

“I like it. What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s just an interesting choice,” he said, now even more intrigued. “It’s just not very… girly, I guess.” He laughed.

“It was written by a girl.”

“A girl who likes monsters.”

“Maybe I like monsters.” I hid a smile.

“Is that right?” Chase narrowed his eyes my direction. He sat beside me on the bed and bounced a little, unused to a mattress, then grinned like a little kid.