The Fight

Tuesday, September 9th

Kylie wasn't at school today, but I wish she had been there. Andrew and Jake were back. They're the two boys who'd passed out in class last week. But I think they let them out of the hospital too soon. At lunch, Darryl called Jake Blue-Face and Jake punched Darryl. Next thing I knew, Andrew was on top of Darryl, yanking at his hair. Mrs. Johansson, the principal, yelled at them to stop fighting, but Jake kept hitting Darryl and Andrew yanked out handfuls of hair. Julianne, one of the girls who hang all over Darryl, ran to get Nurse Joe and he injected the two boys with something. They slumped to the ground and so did Darryl. Blood poured out of his nose. Nurse Joe propped him up and tilted back his head. His jaw didn't look right. Julianne and Brooke were hugging each other and crying. The rest of us just sat there and stared. Darryl was still out when the ambulance arrived. They loaded him onto a stretcher and carried him out. The police came and cuffed Andrew and Jake and took them away. No one ate their lunch. And no one said a word the rest of the day. I wanted to ask the other kids if Andrew and Jake were usually like that, but everyone was so withdrawn they didn't even notice when I started to speak, so I just kept my mouth shut too. Hopefully Kylie will be at school tomorrow and I can ask her.

Our Secret

Monday, September 8th
After dinner
Of course, we didn't catch any fish so we had Mom's meatloaf for dinner, which was fine. Mom makes some pretty good meatloaf. But sitting at dinner was hard the secret I now shared with Dad hung between us, exciting as an unwrapped Christmas gift, but terrible at the same time. It was the only thing we wanted to talk about and the one thing we couldn't mention.

When got to the house, Dad had wanted to see the skeleton first. "Looks like she'd been splitting wood," he said in a low voice. "Died instantly from the look of it. Splitting wood one minute, then bam."

"Can you tell how long ago she died?" I asked.

"I'm no anthropologist, but I'd say these bones have been here awhile. Look how white they are." He picked up the skull and studied it for a minute, then pointed to the place the bullet had been. "This is where the bullet was, right?"

"How could you tell?"

"Look at the fracture marks. There and there. I'd say she was shot from behind."

"A coward's shot. I have seen enough old Westerns to know that much."

Dad just nodded. "Coward's shot and left to rot without so much as a shallow grave." He put the skull back where he'd found it. "Let's go look around the house."

Dad's eyes got wide when he looked at the cans of food on the shelf. He picked up a funny shaped can with a pull top and turned it over in his hand. "Spam," he smiled. "I used to love Spam. Your grandma would fry it up and serve it with eggs and hash brown potatoes. Wonder if it's still good."

"You're not going to eat it, are you?"

He squinted at the expiration date. "Only ten years past the expiration date. I bet it's fine. Thing about Spam is that it lasts forever." He put the can in his pocket.

"What if Mom sees it?"

"I'll wait until she's asleep to fry it up." He picked up a few more cans and checked their expiration dates. "Some of this food's almost as old as I am."

"Pre-terrorist?" I asked.

"Definitely pre-terrorist. See this brand here? It was a small factory in butt-fuck nowhere. During the terrorist round-up, some senator found salmonella in a can of beans. Don't know if it was really there or not. The point is, the government shut them down and tried the owners as terrorists. Accused them of trying to assassinate a government official."

"What happened to them?"

"You know, I don't remember. Humane execution more likely than not. People got that for less."

"But how would they know the senator would eat that can of beans? That' doesn't make sense."

"It's the government, Mandy. It doesn't have to make sense." He put down the can of food and closed the cabinet door. He looked out the window.

My eyes followed his and I noticed that the sun was starting to slide down between the branches of the trees.

"Sunset gets earlier every night," he sighed. "I guess we'd better start back."

"You can borrow the journal if you want to read it."

"I'd love to read it." His voice got serious and soft. "Something happened here all those years ago, something no one talked about at least that I remember."

We left the house and walked through the darkening woods. Dad seemed lost in thought and didn't say much. But every so often a crow laughed from the trees.

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.

A Look and a Smile

Saturday, September 6th

I didn’t get a chance to write anything yesterday because I stayed at Kylie’s house. It was pretty uneventful, like she had promised. Her parents were nice enough, but kind of boring. Her mother mostly just smiled and talked about how glad she was that Kylie had a new friend. Her father ate dinner in silence and then went to his bedroom. Kylie’s parents sleep in different rooms, which I find odd. Kylie says it’s because her father snores and has to inhale medicine all night. The medicine isn’t good for babies, so her mother sleeps in the room they plan to make into the nursery.

I asked Kylie if he was still upset about the baby. She just shrugged and said he never really talks to her. When I told her how much me and my dad talk, she couldn’t believe it. Anyway, after dinner we went to her room. Her mother had brought home some makeup they were experimenting with at the pharmacy. It’s supposed to clear up acne. I don’t really have too much of a problem with zits. I mean I get them now and then like anyone does, but Kylie has them pretty bad. So we made each other up and then we went to the Grill on the Hill for a milkshake. Some guy I’d never seen before kept looking over at us. I asked Kylie if she knew him and she said, “That’s Adam Tucker. He’s home schooled.” She leaned over across the table to whisper. “They say his parents used to be terrorists. And they might still be.”

I started to say I’d met Mr. Tucker and didn’t think he was too dangerous, but I didn’t want Kylie to drop me as a friend so I said nothing. But I did give Adam Tucker a smile when I left. He looked lonely and, truthfully, he’s kind of cute in skinny, impish way. Hopefully Dad will make good on his promise and introduce me. Or maybe I’ll get brave and introduce myself if I run into him when I’m not with Kylie.

Zucchini Fritters

September 4th, after dinner

Dad came home from work alone tonight, carrying a canvas bag. My mother raised her eyebrows and asked “What do you have there?”

“Vegetables,” my Dad said. “Homegrown and healthy.”

My mother took a zucchini from the bag and swiped her finger across it. “Dirty. Where did you get it?”

“I bought it.”

“You spent good money on filthy vegetables?” She took the bag from him and put it in the garbage can. “I don’t eat dirt.”

Dad took the vegetables and put them in the sink. “You wash them first, like anything you buy.” He turned on the water as high as it would go and spoke above its torrential din. “But this way, all you’re washing off is dirt instead of God only knows what the government treats them with.”

“It’s not hygienic,” she yelled. “I won’t eat them and neither will Amanda.”

“I’ll eat them,” I spoke up. I’m not usually too fond of vegetables, but I liked the idea of eating something a person had grown and wondered if maybe the vegetables would taste different.

“You don’t even like vegetables,” my mother scolded, her voice ending too loud because my father had turned off the water.

“I might like these.”

“Well I won’t cook them.”

“I’ll cook them.” Dad winked at me and pulled out the grater.

“What are you doing?” Mom asked.

“Something my Dad did. I’d almost forgotten.” He sliced the zucchini in big chunks and put it into the grater. Thin segments came out the other end. I watched as he mixed the segments with flour, egg, and water. He placed oil in a pan and came to sit across from me at the table. Mom busied herself making a fruit salad from store-bought fruit, flash frozen for freshness.

“I didn’t get a chance to come back last night,” he said. “Did the milk help?”

I nodded. “Did you buy the vegetables from Mr. Tucker?”

“Who else?” Dad asked. “I’m glad you’re willing to try them.”

“Can I talk to him again sometime?” I asked in a whisper.

“Sometime,” Dad said quietly. “He’s got a boy about your age, I think.”

“He has kids?” I asked.

“Six of them,” Dad said. “But I don’t want to let you mother know that just yet.”
I nodded.

“I’d better check the oil,” Dad said. He stood up and flicked a small bit of batter into the oil. I heard it sizzle. I watched as he dropped spoonfuls of zucchini-laced batter into the oil and brought out golden puffs. When they were finished, he put them on the table between Mom’s fruit salad and the roasted chicken she’d bought from the deli.

I lifted a golden fritter to my mouth and took a bite. I fanned my mouth with my hand and swallowed. “Good, but hot.”

“Your granddad’s zucchini fritters were better,” Dad said. “But give me a chance. By the time we grow our own zucchini next year, mine will be even better.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my mother scowling.