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."

Guns and Bullets

After dinner we sat together as a family and watched a cowboy from a world I’d never known saunter into town, a gun slung low across each hipbone. I thought about the bullet I had wriggled from the woman’s skull. Had she been shot by a gunslinger, black hat pulled low over his eyes? USG4 2014 had been the marking on the bullet. Was it an identification number like the ones tattooed on each baby at birth? Could it be used to track the bullet to its owner?

There are no cowboys now. Maybe they’d never lived. And only police and soldiers are issued guns, guns they must return when their term of service ends.

“Dad, have you ever owned a gun?” I whispered.

“Shhhh.” Mom said.

I waited for the public service announcement and asked again.

Dad leaned over and spoke quietly. “I had a BB gun when I was a boy and my father and brother had hunting rifles. I shot my brother’s a few times -- just at targets. I was supposed to get my own the year they banned them.”

“What happened to the guns?”

“We had to turn them in when we moved to the safety net. That was one of the toughest things for your grandfather. Some of those guns had belonged to my grandfather. He hadn’t shot most of them in years, just kept them in a closet and run his hand over them now and then, remembering how Grandpa Bard had run his own hand down the barrel, keeping the gun polished and ready at all times.”

“Did the bullets have numbers on them?”

“I never noticed. Why do you ask?”

“Shhh.” Mom said. The show was back on.

“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered and turned my attention to the show.

By the time the show was over, Dad had fallen asleep in his chair. I kissed his forehead, gave Mom a gentle hug and went to bed.

All that happened yesterday. I’m writing about it now because I decided to keep my own journal and write down anything that might help someone reconstruct my own past someday. Maybe whoever finds my journal will be smart enough to figure out why two of my classmates just turned blue and dropped right in the middle of class. I don’t know if they’re dead or not. They quarantined the rest of us to the gym as soon as it happened. So that’s where I sit now, starting a journal in a notebook bought for writing notes in Algebra. I can always buy another notebook if I need one. So far everything has been review.

Trying out Names

When I got to my room, I was relieved to find the journal sitting on my desk next to my schoolbooks. I hoped Dad had found it, not Mom, but there was no changing it either way. At least I had it. I placed it carefully in my bottom desk drawer. I put on jeans and a t-shirt and left my room, closing the door tight behind me. By the time I got to the kitchen, Mom had already put dinner on the table.

“Did you get them all?” Dad asked.

“I hope so.” I sat in my usual chair and scooped au gratin potatoes onto my plate. Mom scowled as I picked up a crusty chicken breast with my hands the way I always did. I held up my hands.

“They’re clean. I just took a bath, remember?”

“You’re old enough to use a fork.”

“It’s fried chicken, Mom. Finger-lickin’ good.”

Mom just shook her head. I could see Dad grinning as he picked up a drumstick and took a bite.

“You two,” Mom sighed.

“Peas in a pod,” Dad said.

Mom rubbed her hand across the slight bulge just below her narrow waist. “Don’t listen to them, Providence. We don’t want you learning their bad manners.”

“Providence?” I asked.

“I know. It’s a little old fashioned, but your father picked it out.” Mom put her hand over Dad’s.

I looked over at Dad.

He nodded and grinned. “Nothing wrong with being old fashioned.”

“What if it’s a boy?” I asked.

Dad shrugged. “Then I guess we’ll change the name to Chance.”

“Or Fortune,” Mom said. “Because very few people in this world are fortunate enough to have a second child.”

“Fortune Bard?” I asked. “Think of the poor child’s future.”

Dad laughed. “You have a point, Mandy girl. Good thing we have some time to try out names.”