USG4 2014

Monday, September 8th

I was surprised to see my Dad waiting in the school parking lot when school let out. Usually I take the bus.

"Want a ride home?" he asked.

"How'd you get off work so early?"

"I went in early and got my paperwork done. I wanted to go see that house of yours if you're willing to show me."

"Because of that bullet?" I whispered.

Dad glanced around furtively. He led me to where he had parked the car without saying a word. After we were inside he started the engine. It was only then that he started to speak. "It might be best to keep that bullet a secret."

"It's not just a bullet from a hunting rifle, is it?"

Dad shook his head. "That bullet was government issue, I know that much. And it was made before the terror outbreaks started."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"That marking on it. I had an uncle who served in the military. I saw his bullets once and he explained how they were labeled. 2014 was the year that bullet was made."
"So the woman was shot by someone in the military?" I knew my eyes were wide. "Does that mean Mom was right and she was a terrorist? Because that doesn't make sense, not if you read the journal."

"I'm not sure what it means. All I know is it's made me damn curious to see the house and read this journal you found."

I could hardly believe it. I thought about what they taught in history class about the years leading up to the terrorist outbreak and the time just after. Sure, the government had rounded up a lot of people and questioned them, but they wouldn't have gone out and shot a woman who was just trying to survive, would they? Or maybe....my mother's voice nagged at me...maybe she really was a terrorist and the journal was just some story she made up, just fiction. "What if..." I started to ask Dad if he thought the military would do that...just shoot an innocent woman, but then thought maybe I didn't want to know.

Dad seemed to know what I was thinking because he changed the subject and asked me how school was going. I told him a few funny stories about my classes and by that time, we were home.

"Let's just peek in and tell your mother we're here," he said.

"She'll wonder where we're going."

"I'll take care of that," he said. "She'll worry if she thinks you didn't come home from school."

I knew he was right. Any little thing sets Mom to worrying these days.

We went inside and found Mom watching the television, knitting needles working up and down through soft light turquoise yarn. Dad walked over and kissed her cheek. She held up the blanket she was working on. "I finally figured out what I'm doing. Do you like it?"

"It looks great, Julie." Dad said.

"Yeah, Mom. Is it fun to do?"

Mom giggled a little. "I guess it is, in a way. Well, not at first. Your father's lucky he wasn't around the first three or four times I tried to make it work. I would have jabbed one of these needles in his side just for suggesting I make a blanket for the baby."

"Good thing I was at work," Dad said. "Speaking of which, I got off a little early and thought I'd take Mandy out and show her how to fish. Want to come along?"

"I'll pass. You don't expect me to cook what you catch, do you?"

"We'll be back before dinner," Dad said. "And IF we catch anything, which I doubt, I'll fry it up myself."

Dad kissed Mom on the cheek and we left the house.

"The fishing rods and tackle box are in the car," he said, as he walked to the car. "We'd best take them just to keep our story straight." He took out too long poles and a box. He handed one of the poles to me. "Which way?"

"Down that path there. The house is just a bit past the pond."

"Good. That makes our alibi even better."

Going to Church

Sunday, September 7th

Mom insisted that we go to church this morning. She said it was a good way to meet some decent neighbors. She emphasized the word decent and glared at Dad as she said it. Not that Mom is religious. When we lived inside the safety net, we only went to church for Christmas, Easter, weddings, and funerals, and even then Dad complained. He said church wasn't the same since they standardized the Bible. He still has his old family Bible and he says if he wants religion on any particular day, that's the Bible he'll read, at least until the government takes it from him.

Mom says she doubts there's any danger of that. Dad disagrees. He says that requiring the standardized Bible in public services is just the first step. Mom says the standardized Bible is the same, but simplified so that people can understand it better. They have the same argument every time we go to church, including this morning.

The church was new and small. A stained glass window in the shape of a cross was positioned behind the podium so that the light shone through it and cast little colors of light around the preacher. A small angel looked out from smaller stained glass windows along the sides. Instead of hard pews like they had in the city, we sat on padded folding chairs. People were friendly and walked up to us, introducing themselves and shaking our hands. I'll never remember any of the names, but that's alright. I did see a couple of kids I knew from school. The ones who recognized me glanced over and smiled.

A group of five did the singing. I didn't know the songs, but they projected the words on a screen. A few people around mouthed the words, a couple tapped their feet. Most just stood and stared. After the songs, the preacher stood up and read from the standardized blue Bible. A tiny flag adorned its thin outer edge. Dad muttered that a Bible has no business being so thin and blue. His family bible is thick and bound in black leather. Its gold-edged pages are filled with tiny print. A couple people nodded as he read. Most stared up at him with no expression. After he finished reading, the singers sang again and a collection plate was passed. I noticed that almost everyone put something in the plate, even the kids. I had nothing to add, but I did see Mom and Dad both add a bill to the pile. When the songs were over, someone gave a prayer and it was over. In the lobby, Mom stood around and talked to people. Dad went outside to have a smoke and I followed him.

"None of your friends here?" he asked.

"I know a couple of the kids, but not very well."

Dad looked around and noticed we were alone. "I covered for you yesterday with your mother, but I'm curious. Where did you find that bullet?"

I leaned close and whispered, "It was in a skull near that house I told you about."

Dad's eyes got wide. "Like the person had been shot?"

I nodded.

"There you two are," Mom's voice called out from across the parking lot, startling us both. "The Jacksons want us to join them for lunch at The Grill on the Hill. I told them we'd be happy to."

Dad smiled and called back. "Sounds wonderful, honey. That way we don't need to cook." He took my arm and said softly. "Just go along with it, Mandy girl. Your mother will be much happier if she has people to talk to." We walked over to join Mom and her new friends.

The Sting

Evening September 6th
A red hot needle stuck into my arm. That's what it felt like when the wasp stung me this afternoon. I was sitting in the porch swing reading a book for school and I felt this sudden burning pain. I went into the house and luckily I found Dad in the kitchen, making himself a snack.

"Something stung me," I said.

Dad looked at my arm and nodded. "More than likely a mud dauber. No stinger, though. It must have just bit you instead of stinging."

"What's a mud dauber?" I asked. "Are they poisonous?"

"A kind of wasp. They get their name because they build their nests out of mud." Dad pulled the orange box of baking soda out of the cabinet and put a spoonful in a tea cup. He spit into the cup a few times then stirred. He took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and broke one open into the paste.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Tobacco'll help draw the venom out of it." He spread the ugly paste onto the bite and tied a dishtowel around it. "Keep this on it for three or four hours."

I sat down at the table. "How long before the pain goes away."

"It'll take a few minutes to start working. Want something to drink?"

"Just water." I was feeling a little queasy.

By the time Dad set the water in front of me, the pain had dulled some. "I think it's working."

"Good." He sat across the table from me and started eating his sandwich.

"How did you know about the paste?" I asked.

"Believe me, I had my fair share of wasp stings and every other kind of sting when I was growing up."

Just then Mom came in the room. She looked angry and nervous at the same time. She put the bullet I'd pulled from the woman's skull in the center of the table. "Either of you care to explain where this came from?"

Dad picked it up and examined it. "Never seen it before in my life."

"It's mine," I confessed. "I found it and put it in my pocket."

"Where did you find it?" Mom asked. "You've been at that house again, haven't you? I told you terrorists used to live there."

"You know how many bullets there probably are in those woods, Julie? Remember, people used to hunt here back before they built the safety net."

"Don't you cover for her. Amanda, where did you get this?"

"Dad's right. I just found it in the woods." I hoped she wouldn't be able to tell I was lying. I think it worked because the next thing she noticed was the dishtowel around my arm.

"What did you do to your arm?"

"Wasp sting," I said. "Dad took care of it."

"It doesn't hurt anymore, does it?" he asked.

"Not a bit," I said.

"A little baking soda and tobacco does the trick every time," Dad smiled.
Mom just rolled her eyes.