THE MONUMENT: 27
The two men stop in front of the coffee cart to chat with Trudy, and Roger sets Starlet down, turning and leaning down to speak with her. As he takes her hand in his, he sees something move out of the corner of his eye, his tracker instincts always on alert. Imperceptibly cocking his head, he locks his gaze on the movement: a lithe blonde diving into the bushes. Brown blazer, blue jeans. Though he didn’t catch a glimpse of her face, he can positively identify her: Stephanie Fairbanks.
A remnant of the chilly morning breeze blows in from the coast, even though the sun is warm on his face.
“I’m sorry, folks,” he says, hoisting Starlet back up onto his hip, despite her protestations. “But we really have to run.” He takes long, quick strides away from them and toward his parked car.
With her pouting face against Roger’s shoulder, Starlet waves goodbye to them, and John and Trudy holler, “You take care now.”
Turning onto the sidewalk and passing by several open-air cafes with no one sitting at the white-linened tables, Roger notices a woman sitting in the passenger seat of a small red sports car. At a glance, he can tell the angular cheekbones and flaccid, mouse-brown hair do not belong to his target, and he keeps going until he reaches his rental luxury sedan. He straps Starlet in to the backseat, and gets behind the wheel, speeding off to pick up Stephanie’s trail.
The eldest calls for a halt. “We will rest here, and wait for the others to catch up.” They had been walking for hours, having taken only one rest stop so far. It was many hours past their bedtime, and some of the older Journeyers were beginning to wear thin. “We will eat at high noon, and set out again soon after.” He seeks respite under the shady branches of a lone spruce tree, sits down with his legs crossed and his back against the tree trunk, the jagged bark sticking through his thin robe, and closes his eyes.
He is awakened by a gentle hand nudging his forearm and opens his eyes to see Donna, a longtime Journeyer and elder mother. She holds out a steaming bowl of stew, which he lifts from her hands, and sits in the dried pine needles across from him, another bowl in her other hand. The rims of her eyes are red; she had clearly been crying.
“This time tomorrow,” she says, “we will be there.” She smiles meekly at him, curtains of warm brown hair draping either side of her face, then lifts a spoon to her lips and blows on the hot stew before gulping it down.
The eldest looks up to the sky, and though his sight is obstructed by the thick branches, he sees the sun is past its peak. “Yes, we will need to get moving soon.” He slurps his own stew, eyeing her intently.
After a time, he says, “I know this has been difficult for you, Donna.”
She slowly nods her head, tears clogging her honey-colored eyes.
“We will find her.” He looks at the woman gravely, offers an encouraging nod.
“I—I can’t bear to lose another child,” she whispers. “When I left my boys…”
“I know, Donna. I know.” He bows his wizened face and inhales a deep and troubled breath. They finish their stew in silence. Then, he says, “Start gathering everyone. It’s time to go.”
They stand up, exchanging a long look that expresses the sorrow and hope in their hearts, and then Donna turns, walks off to start rounding up the others to leave. The eldest remembers how painful it had been for Donna to leave her family in order to join him and this new family on their Journey, and he knows how much pain she still suffers all these years later. At the time, he had respected and praised her bravery and devotion to the Monument and her beliefs, and now, in the last twenty-odd years, he had come to rely on her as a pillar of strength in the tribe. She is determined and level-headed, and more so than many of the others, he believes she is able to see the bigger picture—that they are all but specks of dust, which, when strewn together, form a bond as strong as rock, and that ultimately, symbolically, they are what comprise the makeup of the Monument, and of all things.
As an elder mother, Donna cares for all of the tribe’s children, but her affection for Starlet is unmatched by the others. She had never had a daughter of her own, and the eldest is afraid of what may happen to her should he fail to find their missing Starlet.
For Donna’s sake, he thinks, if for no other, I must find that child.
London checks in to his hotel under a pseudonym. His identity as the leader of the Opposition is not widely known; however, he takes no chances when traveling, preferring to reserve cars, rooms, flights, et cetera, as Dr. Frank Portman.
“The bellboy will show you to your suite, Dr. Portman,” the dapper young man behind the counter says cheerfully. “Please make yourself at home. You can phone me if you need anything. My name is Derek.”
London says thank you and slaps a bill onto the counter, then spins to follow the pimple-faced bellboy to the elevator. They alight on the ninth floor and walk to the end of the hall to a luxury suite, the bellboy opening the door and waiting for his tip. London inspects the room, sees that his luggage has already been brought up, and hands the boy a crisp bell, then dismisses him. Alone in the giant room, all neutral shades of beige and brown, London pulls the curtains open and looks out over the town, locates the Monument building, and turns his attention on the coastline, sparkling in the noonday sun. His toes itch inside his shoes as he imagines walking barefoot along the sandy beach, crackling with broken seashells and driftwood. Removing both cherished shoes, he steps over to the bed, sits down, withdraws his shoe-shine kit, and begins, compulsively, to polish each wingtip with meticulous small circles.
Amazing what a few hours of action out in the world will do to a good pair of shoes, he muses, stroking each one with a loving attention, massaging each crevice out of the pliant leather. When he is satisfied, he stretches out on the bed, hands behind his head, ankles crossed. He relives in his mind what happened to him at the Monument earlier today and curses it for having caused such an outward reaction in him at all. Wiggling his fingers, he tries to recapture the fuzzy sensation he felt when he touched the Monument, but he can’t quite feel it.
Mother…, he thinks somberly. She felt its pull, and yet, she must know its purpose is not this, is not as some religious idolatry bullshit… Dammit! Flexing his abdominal muscles, he crunches up and into a sitting position at the foot of the bed, his feet dangling to the floor. He draws his laptop computer out of his bag and powers on, the machine resting on his thighs, then dials the front desk to request a room-service meal in about an hour.
Placing thoughts of Wally far away, knowing that someone—Mel or Roger—would contact him if there is any development or a breakthrough, he devotes the rest of his afternoon to reading his message boards, following the different threads as people frenetically post with worry and anticipation as they prepare for tomorrow’s big event.
Stephanie arcs around the back on the building and creeps along the well-maintained shrubbery, the sweet pepper bushes and white alders. She spies the tall, dark man get into his car and drive off, and waits for the white-haired man to return inside. He chats with the plump woman behind the cart for a few minutes, then heads toward the building. With only the woman to evade, Stephanie is sure she can make it to her car unnoticed. Still, she decides to broaden her arc, sprinting away from the Monument building, until she inches near the oversized garbage bins behind a restaurant, and lurks among them to a narrow alleyway. Crossing between the buildings, she comes out on the street and, with confident strides, walks toward the Monument and her car. Out of the corner of her eye, she looks toward the coffee cart as she passes, but the woman hardly pays attention to her, glancing up fleetingly before dunking her head behind the cart again.
When Stephanie lifts the handle of her car door, Sally Mae jumps at the sudden noise. The door is locked, but when Sally Mae sees her, she reaches over and opens it from the inside. Crawling into the seat, Stephanie peers at herself in the rearview mirror and tugs a dried leaf out of blond hair, and says, “Sorry I was gone so long.”
“That’s awright,” Sally Mae says, with a devilish grin. She closes the computer on her lap. “I guess you didn’t find your little girls?”
“No,” Stephanie says with a sigh. “No, they weren’t there.” She pulls her seat belt across her chest and buckles it. “Now, I need to stop at a friend’s house,” she explains, and rummages in her purse for a slip of paper with an address scribbled on it. Unfolding it, she sticks it in her lap and throws her purse onto the backseat. Then she starts the car and pulls out onto the street. “So, did you learn anything new about sailboats?”
“Oh yeah. I learned a lot actually.” She pauses, then continues in a dreamy voice. “Someday I want to go out on the ocean and sail, feel the wind blowin’ on my face.”
“That’s good, Sally Mae. That’s something you can work toward—”
“Stephanie,” Sally Mae cuts her off. “They are looking for you.” Her eyes protrude like inflating balloons, and laughs.
“Who—who’s looking for me?” Stephanie asks, trying not to sound alarmed. “Neil?”
“Neil!” Sally Mae shrieks, then starts laughing. “No, not Neil. The Village Green Preservation Society…”
Stephanie turns onto a wide boulevard, lined with black gum and magnolia trees.
“And the Opposition.” Sally Mae cackles.
Stephanie tries to process the words she is hearing. Sally Mae squirms in the seat next to her, the computer still on her lap. But how? she wonders.
Sally Mae turns to her, deep hollows in her gaunt cheeks. “You don’t have any kids, do you?”
A remnant of the chilly morning breeze blows in from the coast, even though the sun is warm on his face.
“I’m sorry, folks,” he says, hoisting Starlet back up onto his hip, despite her protestations. “But we really have to run.” He takes long, quick strides away from them and toward his parked car.
With her pouting face against Roger’s shoulder, Starlet waves goodbye to them, and John and Trudy holler, “You take care now.”
Turning onto the sidewalk and passing by several open-air cafes with no one sitting at the white-linened tables, Roger notices a woman sitting in the passenger seat of a small red sports car. At a glance, he can tell the angular cheekbones and flaccid, mouse-brown hair do not belong to his target, and he keeps going until he reaches his rental luxury sedan. He straps Starlet in to the backseat, and gets behind the wheel, speeding off to pick up Stephanie’s trail.
*
The eldest calls for a halt. “We will rest here, and wait for the others to catch up.” They had been walking for hours, having taken only one rest stop so far. It was many hours past their bedtime, and some of the older Journeyers were beginning to wear thin. “We will eat at high noon, and set out again soon after.” He seeks respite under the shady branches of a lone spruce tree, sits down with his legs crossed and his back against the tree trunk, the jagged bark sticking through his thin robe, and closes his eyes.
He is awakened by a gentle hand nudging his forearm and opens his eyes to see Donna, a longtime Journeyer and elder mother. She holds out a steaming bowl of stew, which he lifts from her hands, and sits in the dried pine needles across from him, another bowl in her other hand. The rims of her eyes are red; she had clearly been crying.
“This time tomorrow,” she says, “we will be there.” She smiles meekly at him, curtains of warm brown hair draping either side of her face, then lifts a spoon to her lips and blows on the hot stew before gulping it down.
The eldest looks up to the sky, and though his sight is obstructed by the thick branches, he sees the sun is past its peak. “Yes, we will need to get moving soon.” He slurps his own stew, eyeing her intently.
After a time, he says, “I know this has been difficult for you, Donna.”
She slowly nods her head, tears clogging her honey-colored eyes.
“We will find her.” He looks at the woman gravely, offers an encouraging nod.
“I—I can’t bear to lose another child,” she whispers. “When I left my boys…”
“I know, Donna. I know.” He bows his wizened face and inhales a deep and troubled breath. They finish their stew in silence. Then, he says, “Start gathering everyone. It’s time to go.”
They stand up, exchanging a long look that expresses the sorrow and hope in their hearts, and then Donna turns, walks off to start rounding up the others to leave. The eldest remembers how painful it had been for Donna to leave her family in order to join him and this new family on their Journey, and he knows how much pain she still suffers all these years later. At the time, he had respected and praised her bravery and devotion to the Monument and her beliefs, and now, in the last twenty-odd years, he had come to rely on her as a pillar of strength in the tribe. She is determined and level-headed, and more so than many of the others, he believes she is able to see the bigger picture—that they are all but specks of dust, which, when strewn together, form a bond as strong as rock, and that ultimately, symbolically, they are what comprise the makeup of the Monument, and of all things.
As an elder mother, Donna cares for all of the tribe’s children, but her affection for Starlet is unmatched by the others. She had never had a daughter of her own, and the eldest is afraid of what may happen to her should he fail to find their missing Starlet.
For Donna’s sake, he thinks, if for no other, I must find that child.
*
London checks in to his hotel under a pseudonym. His identity as the leader of the Opposition is not widely known; however, he takes no chances when traveling, preferring to reserve cars, rooms, flights, et cetera, as Dr. Frank Portman.
“The bellboy will show you to your suite, Dr. Portman,” the dapper young man behind the counter says cheerfully. “Please make yourself at home. You can phone me if you need anything. My name is Derek.”
London says thank you and slaps a bill onto the counter, then spins to follow the pimple-faced bellboy to the elevator. They alight on the ninth floor and walk to the end of the hall to a luxury suite, the bellboy opening the door and waiting for his tip. London inspects the room, sees that his luggage has already been brought up, and hands the boy a crisp bell, then dismisses him. Alone in the giant room, all neutral shades of beige and brown, London pulls the curtains open and looks out over the town, locates the Monument building, and turns his attention on the coastline, sparkling in the noonday sun. His toes itch inside his shoes as he imagines walking barefoot along the sandy beach, crackling with broken seashells and driftwood. Removing both cherished shoes, he steps over to the bed, sits down, withdraws his shoe-shine kit, and begins, compulsively, to polish each wingtip with meticulous small circles.
Amazing what a few hours of action out in the world will do to a good pair of shoes, he muses, stroking each one with a loving attention, massaging each crevice out of the pliant leather. When he is satisfied, he stretches out on the bed, hands behind his head, ankles crossed. He relives in his mind what happened to him at the Monument earlier today and curses it for having caused such an outward reaction in him at all. Wiggling his fingers, he tries to recapture the fuzzy sensation he felt when he touched the Monument, but he can’t quite feel it.
Mother…, he thinks somberly. She felt its pull, and yet, she must know its purpose is not this, is not as some religious idolatry bullshit… Dammit! Flexing his abdominal muscles, he crunches up and into a sitting position at the foot of the bed, his feet dangling to the floor. He draws his laptop computer out of his bag and powers on, the machine resting on his thighs, then dials the front desk to request a room-service meal in about an hour.
Placing thoughts of Wally far away, knowing that someone—Mel or Roger—would contact him if there is any development or a breakthrough, he devotes the rest of his afternoon to reading his message boards, following the different threads as people frenetically post with worry and anticipation as they prepare for tomorrow’s big event.
*
Stephanie arcs around the back on the building and creeps along the well-maintained shrubbery, the sweet pepper bushes and white alders. She spies the tall, dark man get into his car and drive off, and waits for the white-haired man to return inside. He chats with the plump woman behind the cart for a few minutes, then heads toward the building. With only the woman to evade, Stephanie is sure she can make it to her car unnoticed. Still, she decides to broaden her arc, sprinting away from the Monument building, until she inches near the oversized garbage bins behind a restaurant, and lurks among them to a narrow alleyway. Crossing between the buildings, she comes out on the street and, with confident strides, walks toward the Monument and her car. Out of the corner of her eye, she looks toward the coffee cart as she passes, but the woman hardly pays attention to her, glancing up fleetingly before dunking her head behind the cart again.
When Stephanie lifts the handle of her car door, Sally Mae jumps at the sudden noise. The door is locked, but when Sally Mae sees her, she reaches over and opens it from the inside. Crawling into the seat, Stephanie peers at herself in the rearview mirror and tugs a dried leaf out of blond hair, and says, “Sorry I was gone so long.”
“That’s awright,” Sally Mae says, with a devilish grin. She closes the computer on her lap. “I guess you didn’t find your little girls?”
“No,” Stephanie says with a sigh. “No, they weren’t there.” She pulls her seat belt across her chest and buckles it. “Now, I need to stop at a friend’s house,” she explains, and rummages in her purse for a slip of paper with an address scribbled on it. Unfolding it, she sticks it in her lap and throws her purse onto the backseat. Then she starts the car and pulls out onto the street. “So, did you learn anything new about sailboats?”
“Oh yeah. I learned a lot actually.” She pauses, then continues in a dreamy voice. “Someday I want to go out on the ocean and sail, feel the wind blowin’ on my face.”
“That’s good, Sally Mae. That’s something you can work toward—”
“Stephanie,” Sally Mae cuts her off. “They are looking for you.” Her eyes protrude like inflating balloons, and laughs.
“Who—who’s looking for me?” Stephanie asks, trying not to sound alarmed. “Neil?”
“Neil!” Sally Mae shrieks, then starts laughing. “No, not Neil. The Village Green Preservation Society…”
Stephanie turns onto a wide boulevard, lined with black gum and magnolia trees.
“And the Opposition.” Sally Mae cackles.
Stephanie tries to process the words she is hearing. Sally Mae squirms in the seat next to her, the computer still on her lap. But how? she wonders.
Sally Mae turns to her, deep hollows in her gaunt cheeks. “You don’t have any kids, do you?”
...continues tomorrow...
posted by jay x at 11:55 PM
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