All the Hush-Hush at the Farm House
Unfortunately, I am an only child.
If I wasn’t an only child I would’ve been at journalism camp with the other guys. Not at this crappy farm.
I hadn’t even gotten out of the car yet, and already I could smell the putrid odor of healthy plants and even healthier animals, though it definitely did not smell healthy.
See if I had a brother, I could’ve just made him come instead. Robert and Ana didn’t really care about me; they just needed a kid to prove that we’re functional. It didn’t matter who it is. If I had a brother, they could choose. Or better yet, a sister. Everybody loves girls.
I looked dejectedly out the window. A huge, hand-made banner was hung over the large red barn. It was really just a white bed sheet with the words “Greenmann-Jones Family Reunion” painted in large red letters. The paint was still wet and the red was dripping. It reminded me of history class. In like the Middle Ages or something, they would hang the marital bed sheet up in public after the wedding night so everyone could make sure the bride was a virgin. Gross.
“Christopher Bobby Jones!” Ana yelled at me, “Get out of the car and help with the bags!”
I sighed and opened the car door. Hot, dusty air invaded my face. I wheezed and grabbed at my pockets for my inhaler.
“Topher! Your mother told you to get the bags,” Robert yelled from somewhere unseen.
I fumbled my inhaler into my mouth and searched the wide landscape for my parents while I tried not to die. It seemed I was allergic to just about everything in this god-forsaken place. Not to mention the asthma.
There was literally nothing worth existing here. All I could see was the barn, a few parked cars, and miles of corn fields.
“Topher!”
I whipped my head to the right. In the distance sat a large farmhouse. I saw my mother moseying towards it. My father, on the other hand, was sprinting in my direction. There was another man matching his pace, it was my Uncle John. I slammed the car door, pocketed my inhaler, and headed towards the already open trunk.
“Come on son,” Robert said, reaching me in no time. He wasn’t even out of breath, “Let’s get a move on.”
“Give the kid a break,” said Uncle John.
“Uncle John!” I smiled and held out my fist, which was promptly bumped. Uncle John was the only one here that got that. He was only thirty-two and already he was a US senator. And he wasn’t stupid enough to get married either. My father was forty, married, and still in local government. But we don’t really talk about that.
“Hey kid,” Uncle John said, punching me in the shoulder. Pain radiated through me as he hit the bone. I tried not to wince.
“Why don’t you feed this kid, Robert? He looks like he’ll blow away any second,” Uncle John asked. He walked behind the car to join my father. I followed.
The trunk held my backpack, a small duffel for Robert, and two large leopard print suitcases that were Ana’s. Great.
I grabbed the duffel and my backpack before Robert had a chance to tell me what to take, and started for the house. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his disapproving glare on my back.
Uncle John caught up to me quickly, one of Ana’s suitcases in hand.
“So Toph, what have you been up to?” he asked me.
I heard the trunk slam and the locks click into place behind us.
“Not much,” I said.
“Come on!” Robert said, his footsteps crunched the dirt road louder as they got closer, “I’ll race you!”
Robert took off, passing me quickly and not looking back. The heavy suitcase thumped against his side, but he didn’t even notice. Uncle John hurried to catch up to him. His booming laugh echoed back to me.
I didn’t even try to beat them. Hay fever sucks no matter what, but when you add actual hay into the mix, well, I definitely was not going to be running any time in the next week.
I could see a clump of the men standing over at the edge of one of the corn fields. Even from far away I could tell who was who. The Joneses were all wearing jean shorts. The Greenmanns and Goldbergs were all wearing yacht gear, even though we were seriously land-locked here. Aunt Margaret always made her family match, so the Goldbergs were all wearing yellow today. There was also some guy in a dark sweatshirt. That was weird, but I couldn’t tell who it was from so far away.
The farm house was one of those old ones that survived the civil war. It contained at least ten bedrooms and featured a large porch that wrapped all the way around the house. Dozens of rocking chairs were scattered around it. Already a good number of them were occupied.
Dominating the porch was a large clump of women, rocking their chairs furiously and using random objects as fans. This was my mother’s family, the Jews.
Fat Aunt Margaret was hard to miss. She was wearing a bright yellow dress. My mother sat beside her, catching up on sister stuff I guess.
I wish I had a sister.
My cousin Liza was sitting there too, looking incredibly bored. Cell phones didn’t work out here. Liza was really pretty. She was probably missing hundreds of calls from boys at her school.
Aunt Margaret’s daughter, Bella-May sat next to Liza. As I walked closer I heard Bella-May’s shrill shrieks of excitement as she tried to get Liza to talk to her. But Bella-May is only 6, so Liza wasn’t listening.
Nana Jones was also there with her daughter, my Aunt Maria. They were leaning over Aunt Sylvia’s lap. Aunt Margaret and my mother were also paying Sylvia’s lap a lot of attention, which was weird because usually they tried to ice out Aunt Sylvia, who had made the mistake of marrying their favorite brother, Bobby.
I heard a shriek come from under the elevated porch. A clump of dirt with long blond hair shot out towards me.
It was Jackie. I guess she’s technically my aunt, since she’s my dad’s sister. But she’s only nine. So mostly she’s just annoying.
I braced myself as Jackie collided into me. A cloud of dirt puffed up from her no longer white T-shirt, and I started wheezing again. Jackie wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. I think I stopped breathing entirely. I fumbled for my inhaler.
“I am sooooooo glad you’re here!” Jackie squealed. She grabbed my hand, the one holding the inhaler, and yanked me up the porch steps. I gasped for breath as I stumbled after her. We reached the top and she let me yank my hand free. I dropped Robert’s duffle bag and used both hands to cling to the inhaler rushing life-saving oxygen into my lungs.
Suddenly I was surrounded by chattering women.
“Asthma.”
“Such a pity.”
“Not even good at math either.”
“I worry about him. So sickly.”
“And to think he is the only one of our kids tall enough for sports,” that one was Aunt Margaret, talking to my mother. They had all gotten up and were slowly invading my personal bubble.
“What about Allen?” Aunt Sylvia’s voice rang out. I couldn’t see her though. The throng of women was too thick to see anything past the first lines.
“He’s too short,” they all said.
“He’s not short, he’s fun-sized,” Aunt Sylvia shot back. Nobody laughed.
“He only does that basketball to make me worry, you know,” Aunt Margaret complained.
“He could get seriously hurt”
“But at least he’s not sickly like Topher here,” that one was my own mother.
They were closing in, if I was gonna make it out alive, I had to escape now. I tried to side-step in between Nana Jones and Aunt Maria, and ran straight into Aunt Sylvia.
Well I almost did, something stopped me a few inches from her face. I looked down to see what it was, and jumped back in alarm. My eyes widened. I pointed and stammered, “P-p-pregnant!” It was all I could think to say. I felt the heat of blood rush to my cheeks.
“I know. Gross right? I think they did it on my bed,” Liza rolled her eyes at me. She hadn’t moved from the chair.
“Liza!” my mother exclaimed. They turned away from me and towards her as if they were all sharing some master brain. That comment started a whole new disapproving rant that, thankfully, didn’t include me. I grabbed Robert’s duffle and made my escape.
On my way to the front door I passed Grandpa Bob. He was sitting there, alone, muttering to himself. Grandpa Bob never really recovered after Grandma Alison died a few years ago.
“Hey! Hey! You! Boy!” Grandpa Bob grabbed my T-shirt and I was once again trapped.
“Hey Grandpa Bob,” I said reluctantly.
“Don’t tell your Grandmother now, but I let Bobby sneak a little booze. Just let her keeping thinking it’s that inner-ear condition though,” Grandpa Bob pulled my shirt in closer until my nose was touching his. His breath smelled like tomatoes. I leaned away and tried to loosen his grip.
“Ok Grandpa Bob,” I said.
He pulled me in once more, “Promise!”
I held up my hands in surrender, “I promise,” I sighed.
“Good,” Grandpa Bob let go of me and patted my now wrinkled shirt. His hand was almost bigger than my whole stomach.
I retreated into the house as fast as I could. I dumped my backpack and Robert’s duffle next to my mother’s stuff in the living room and headed to the kitchen. Grandpa Jones had made a pitcher of his lemonade. Finally, something good about this place.
I poured myself a large glass, not caring that I was emptying the pitcher, and plopped down at the table. The drone from the porch was less intrusive in here. My glass was dripping cold condensation all over my hand. I sighed happily and took a deep gulp.
My throat burned as it went down. I coughed, banging myself on the chest as I struggled for air. Uncle Stephen had gotten to the lemonade; it was spiked with rum or something. The Greenmanns were not gonna like that.
I looked out the window, the women were still yammering on. And no one else was around. I checked behind me and everything, just to make sure. Then I smiled and took another sip, smaller this time. I pretended like it didn’t burn my insides.
“So whatcha wanna do?” Jackie’s voice came from behind me.
I jumped and the glass slipped. I caught it just in time.
“Whoa! Did you see that! I snatched it out of thin air! That was awesome!” I said proudly.
“Yeah, cool,” Jackie replied, unimpressed, “So watcha wanna do?”
I sighed and set down my drink, wiping my cold wet hands on my jeans, “There is nothing to do Jackie. There is never anything to do at these stupid things. Nothing ever happens. So just go away.”
“Yeah-huh,” Jackie said, plopping down in the chair next to me, “Stuff always happens. We’re just not supposed to talk about it. Can I have some?” Jackie reached for my glass.
I grabbed the lemonade in alarm and hunched over it in protection, “Uh, no,” I tried to change the subject, “What do you mean? We’re not supposed to talk about what?”
Jackie stuck out her tongue at me, “Meanie! You’re supposed to share with me. Your mom said so. I’ll tell!” Jackie stood up.
“Wait!,” I reached out to stop her, “How about a soda?”
Jackie put her finger to her chin like she was thinking hard. She tossed her hair and I leaned away from the dust cloud.
“Okay,” she said, “I want a Coke.”
“You’re not supposed to have caffeine…” I started. Jackie narrowed her eyes and I caved immediately, “Okay, okay, Coke it is.”
I took my lemonade with me as I grabbed a Coke from the top shelf of the fridge. As I handed it to her, I guided her back to the table.
“What did you mean, we’re not supposed to talk about it?” I asked.
I heard the “kkshhh” as Jackie opened the soda. She slurped at the can and looked up at me, “Well like one time I heard Uncle Stephen say that his wife has her own room, they don’t even live together most of the time. But then everyone was all hush-hush and didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Huh,” I slapped at a bug buzzing somewhere near my head, “That’s sad.”
“Yeah and another time I heard my brother Robert telling my daddy that your mommy had a histromecamy. And my daddy was like ‘Don’t talk so loud!’” Jackie took another slurp of the soda, “Do you know what a histmymomany is?”
“No,” I lied. I didn’t even want to know that my mother had had a hysterectomy, much less explain it to my nine year-old aunt.
“Oh. Well, it doesn’t sound fun,” Jackie said, staring at the table. She started drawing happy faces in the wood with her finger.
“Hmm,” I said. I felt the tingling of an idea beginning to form.
“Or like with Mr. Bobby. Mrs. Margaret always hush-hushes Mrs. Sylvia when she talks about it.” Jackie started using what little was left of her fingernails to draw on the table, leaving little scratches in the varnish. I couldn’t hear any sound they were making, but it still hurt my ears somehow. The drawings caught the dancing light coming in from the window, making them almost look alive.
“What? Who?” I asked.
“What your grandpa was just talking about,” Jackie said, “With Mrs. Sylvia’s Bobby.”
“Oh. Right. I call him Jerk Bob,” I said.
Jackie burst out laughing. I scooted her soda away so she wouldn’t knock it over. She was practically in tears.
“Cause, cause he’s really mean!” Jackie said as she struggled to control her laughter, “I like it!”
“Just don’t say it to any of the grown ups,” I said, smiling a little. Jackie fell out of her chair. I chuckled as she made a scene on the floor.
There are too many Bobs in my family. It started with like my Great-Great-Grandfather Robert. It goes all the way to Grandpa Bob, who named his eldest son Bobby, I call him Jerk Bob because I already used up all the other variations of Robert there were. Also because Jerk Bob is a jerk.
Uncle Bob is Aunt Margaret’s Bob. She also has a baby son named Bob Ross Goldman. I think the idea was to call him Ross when he’s older. But my mother and Aunt Margaret have a weird obsession with the name Bob, so I really don’t think that’s gonna happen. We just call him Bob Ross.
My father, at least, refuses to go by anything other than Robert, but I’ve heard Ana call him Bob behind his back. She wanted to name me Bob too. But Robert didn’t faint in the birthing room, so he won the bet and I was Christopher instead. For a while she tried to tack on my middle name, and she called me Topher Bobby. But someone told her that sounded British, so she stopped.
Jackie was still on the floor. She was just laughing for attention now. But she had a point. And I had an idea. Even though at church every Sunday they’re always saying don’t gossip, my family is really, really good at it. Then again the Greenmanns were Jewish, so maybe it was okay for them. My mother is a Messianic Jew. That’s another thing we “don’t” talk about.
You know what? If I couldn’t be at journalism camp, then I was gonna do my journalism right here. I grabbed my lemonade and left Jackie on the floor. I had some research to do.
That night, after dinner, I took my notepad and sat down next to Aunt Margaret. Ever since Grandma Alison had passed, Aunt Margaret was in charge. There wasn’t anything going on here that she didn’t know about.
“So, Aunt Margaret. What’s up?” I asked.
Aunt Margaret raised her eyebrows and turned to Uncle Bob, “What is the matter with kids these days? Don’t they teach English at schools anymore? What is this ‘What’s up?’ and ‘hollering at your brother’ even if you don’t have a brother? If I was in charge, oh, I’m telling you. It would be different.”
“And we would all be better for it dear,” Uncle Bob said, not looking up from the thick novel he was reading.
Aunt Margaret nodded, satisfied, and turned back to me, “Why don’t you go practice basketball with my Allen over there”
She nodded fondly at her son in the other room. He had six cups arranged in a triangle at one end of the kitchen table, and was standing at the other end, practicing bouncing ping-pong balls into them.
Well that was a failure. Aunt Margaret was not even looking at me. She was leaning down to play with Bob Ross on the floor. Her dress gaped open at the top and I was suddenly grateful I wasn’t sitting on the other side of the room.
“You’re not doing it right,” I looked to the other side of me and found Jackie. She had been forced to bathe, so she actually passed for human now.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You can’t just ask her. She won’t talk about it. You have to be sneaky. Have a excuse,” Jackie explained, “Then it’s easy.”
“Well if it’s so easy, why don’t you do it?” I taunted.
“Fine,” Jackie said. She went to stand in front of fat Aunt Margaret, “Mrs. Margaret?”
“Yes dear?” Aunt Margaret smiled sickeningly at her. Girls. Everybody likes them.
“Well I was just wondering. How come Mrs. Sylvia’s tummy is so big now when Liza is practically a grown up and Mr. Bobby is so…” Jackie’s voice dropped in volume and she leaned in close to Aunt Margaret, “…old?”
Aunt Margaret reached for her glass of lemonade sitting on the table in front of her, and took a big sip. She shook her head and gritted her teeth like it hurt to swallow, set the glass back, and leaned in close to Jackie.
“Well,” she whispered, I leaned over in my chair, ears open, “You didn’t hear this from me sweetie. But Mrs. Sylvia is not as old as Mr. Bobby, see. And some people say, not me of course, but some people,” Aunt Margaret’s voice got even quieter. I almost tipped my chair over trying to hear, “some people say that maybe Mr. Bobby didn’t have anything to do with that tummy at all.”
I tipped my chair, and fell all over someone’s feet.
“Careful there kid,” it was Uncle John.
He bent down and righted the chair, with me still in it.
I felt my face grow hot. I mumbled something about playing around. He didn’t embarrass me by asking questions. Instead he drew the attention elsewhere.
“Whatchu reading there Bob?” Uncle John asked, stepping over Bella-May, who was playing on the floor.
“Book,” Uncle Bob.
“Good to know, good to know,” replied Uncle John good-naturedly. Suddenly he wrinkled his nose and turned to talk to Aunt Margaret.
“Whewie! Can you smell what Bob Ross is cooking there Margaret?” He waved his hand in front of his face as he asked.
It hit me then. I pulled my shirt over my mouth and nose, swallowing the bit of vomit in the back of my throat. It smelled like that time Jackie lied about checking for all the eggs in the chicken coop and I had to clean it after they had all been sitting there for a month. I gagged.
Aunt Margaret lifted Bob Ross up by the armpits and smacked his butt against her nose.
“Yup,” she said, “it’s about that time,” she shoved Bob Ross into Uncle Bob’s unsuspecting arms. He calmly balanced the baby whilst reluctantly shutting his book, “It’s time for the kid’s bedtime anyways. Come on Bella-May.”
Aunt Margaret whisked Bella-May out of the room. Uncle Bob followed silently with the baby.
The absence of ping-pong noises and pseudo-manly grunts coming from the kitchen meant that Allen too had wandered off somewhere. The only ones left downstairs now were Uncle John, Jackie, and myself.
“You see?” Jackie said, slumping down on the couch smugly, “You just have to be sneaky.”
“Ooo, sneaky about what?” Uncle John asked.
“Topher is gonna do his journalism about all the hush-hush in the house,” Jackie replied.
“Jackie!” I protested. She ignored me.
“Huh. Persistent about this journalism thing are you? Well good for you kid,” Uncle John said. He reached for the lemonade Aunt Margaret left on the coffee table and took a long swig.
Cool. I knew Uncle John would be cool.
“Thanks,” I said, “So, uh, do you have any dirt for me?”
Uncle John put his feet on the coffee table and leaned back into the couch, holding the glass of lemonade, “Well the Greenmanns haven’t really done anything special since we fled Austria in the Forties. Some of us died over there, you know. Damn Nazis.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said, a little disappointed.
We heard Uncle Stephen singing loudly and off-key out side on the porch.
“If I was a monkey’s uncle! I’d saddle her tooooooooo!”
It was the song he always sang when he was drunkest.
Jackie giggled, “That song is funny.”
“Yes, and a pretty girl like you should not listen,” Uncle John said, “Wait,” he turned to me; I could almost see a cartoon light bulb turn on over his head, “I know what you can do for your project. Go outside and talk to your Uncle Stephen. Ask him if he likes the last name Jones.”
I pursed my lips in confusion, “Uh, okay.”
“Yay! Let’s go outside!” Jackie said, jumping up.
“Not so fast young lady. It’s bedtime for you,” Uncle John said.
“Awwww!” Jackie complained. She sat back down on the couch, arms folded across her chest.
“I’ll tell you a bedtime story,” Uncle John bargained.
“YES!” Jackie shouted. And she was on her feet and headed up the stairs, Uncle John following in her wake, he winked at me as he left the room. I smiled. Uncle John told the best stories.
I went outside. Uncle Stephen was standing behind an empty rocking chair, pushing it back and forth much faster than it was ever intended to go. He was alone in the dark, still singing to himself.
“Well hi-er ther! Ta-ta-ta-topher!” said Uncle Stephen, opening his mouth as wide as it would go as he stumbled over the first part of my name. He swung his arms up in greeting, the liquid sloshed around in the bottle he was holding. But there was so little left, it didn’t spill out. The already out of control rocking chair clattered loudly to the ground.
“Whoops!” Uncle Stephen tried to bend over and pick it up. But he was having some trouble with balance. He grabbed a neighboring rocking chair to try to steady himself, but it didn’t work very well. He almost took that one down too.
I stepped in; making sure Uncle Stephen was seated securely enough, before righting the overturned chair and sitting down myself.
“Hey Uncle Stephen,” I said.
“Whoa! It’s like the ocean!” Uncle Stephen rolled his head around violently and moved around in the chair, “Have you ever been to the ocean, uhhh?”
He was blanking on my name?
“Topher,” I supplied the end of his sentence.
“Topher! Have you ever, everreallyever been to the ocean Topher?” Uncle Stephen rolled his head dramatically to look at me before taking a long swig of clear liquid from the bottle in his hand. He bobbed around, trying to stay seated. Why didn’t we have any normal chairs out here?
“Yes,” I said, “Uncle Stephen I have a question for you.”
“Anything for my son!”
“Nephew.”
“Even better,” he pronounced every single syllable, stopping on the ‘v’ for a long time and squeezing his lips tight to make a popping ‘b’ sound.
“Yes. Um. Uncle Stephen, do you like your last name?”
He made a face like there was a horrible taste in his mouth. He scrunched up his eyes and stuck his tongue in and out of a widely open mouth, like he was trying to get something off it.
“Ick! No!” he said, his head drooping forward suddenly. A warm night breeze bathed my faced and bolstered my courage.
“Why?” I asked.
“Cause it’s not German!” Uncle Stephen’s head snapped up, his eyes were fiery.
“We’re German?” I raised my eyebrows at him, “Are you sure we’re not Irish?”
“Bleh!” he shook his head and spit on the ground. He held the bottle over his head proudly, “This is vodka, boy. That’s the Polish!” Uncle Stephen burst out laughing. It took a minute to calm him down. He was just doing it for the attention, “Pole! Ha!” He pointed at the wooden column supporting the porch over-hang and almost fell over again.
“Oh yeah, funny. That’s a pole-ish,” I said, “So we’re Polish and German then?”
He stopped the laughing.
“Mostly German. That’s the good stuff. Had a good German name too. Until we came here.”
This was getting interesting.
“We changed our name?” I asked, “Why?”
“Cause it got tainted! That’s why! Tainted!” Uncle Stephen almost fell out of his rocking chair again. I leaned forward to help him. It was too dark to really see his face, but he looked a little angry. I couldn’t really tell though.
“What was it?” I was intrigued.
Uncle Stephen looked left and right. Two figures were standing way at the other end of the porch, under the porch light. It was Jerk Bob and another guy I didn’t recognize. But they were too far away to hear anything if it was whispered.
Uncle Stephen leaned in close to me. He smelled like booze and vomit. Gross. I sucked it up, though, and leaned in with him.
“Our name was…Hitler,” he whispered.
I was stunned. I was related to Hitler? Not Adolf Hitler, surely?
Uncle Stephen started squealing. He sounded a lot like Jackie.
“When your mom found out. Whoo-ee, she almost divorced my poe little brother man!”
“What?!” I exclaimed. I sat up straight, eyes wide. My parents almost got divorced? Over a name? How did I not know this?
“But then she found out he was laundering all that money through her account and if she left, she’d be on the hook for all of it!” He could barely contain his glee.
I was speechless. I… what? I didn’t want to believe it. But I knew Uncle Stephen, and he was a lot of things, but a liar was not one of them. Not even a drunk liar.
“He-he-he-he!” Uncle Stephen fell out of his chair. I couldn’t tell if he was laughing or struggling to breathe. The bottle fell out of his hand, the little remaining contents spilling on the ground. I bent down to check on him, putting my face real close to see if I could hear him breathing.
Suddenly he snored louder than when the rocking chair had fallen over. I felt the force of it pull a few strands of my hair towards his face. I jumped back in disgust. I ran my hands all through my hair and shook like a dog, trying to get rid of the drunk uncle smell.
I stepped over Uncle Stephen and sat down hard a few rocking chairs down. I sat down so fast, I almost tipped over backwards.
The Hitler thing was bad, yeah. But it was just a name. And it might not even be that Hitler. Mostly that was just weird. But money laundering?
I barely even knew what that was. And everything I did know I learned from T.V. so who knows if it was even accurate? It’s not that I couldn’t believe something like that of Robert. I mean he’s not all bad. I wouldn’t think he would murder someone or anything. But white collar crime, well I mean that wasn’t too bad, was it? I could see him doing that.
“I already told you!” someone screamed. I looked up. Jerk Bob was yelling at the other guy at the end of the porch. Great. Another drunk uncle. I got up to go inside.
“Queer! A fuckin’ queer!” yelled Jerk Bob.
I froze. Quietly I edged my way closer, sticking to the shadows.
“That doesn’t matter. I need the other evidence you said you had,” a man in a dark sweatshirt replied calmly to Jerk Bob. A piece of wood creaked within the house somewhere. Jerk Bob looked back in alarm.
“Of course it matters,” he hissed, “A United States senator, a Republican, is carrying on right underneath our noses,” Jerk Bob said, lowering his voice.
“You said you had something else,” the sweatshirt man hissed back. He glared over Jerk Bob’s shoulder, at a spot on the wall dangerously close to me. A cold breeze rushed over me and I shrank even further into the shadows, making myself as small as I could.
“Fine,” Jerk Bob said, throwing up his hands, “If sins against God no longer matter… You want to hear about the girls?”
The man’s eyes lit up.
“It’s all Cortez’s operation, you know. We just help get them through customs. Cover it up if one ever gets away. You’re missing the big thing! There is a gay in our midst.” Jerk Bob rubbed his hands together, intertwining them at random, while he talked.
“Illegally? They get past customs illegally?” the sweatshirt man whispered excitedly.
My throat started to close up on me. I pulled out my inhaler, trying not to hyperventilate as I tried to get oxygen into my lungs without being overheard.
“Yeah. By switching out the paperwork on the cargo.” Jerk Bob said, not really interested in sweatshirt man anymore.
“And you’ve seen this?”
“Yeah. I had to help last Tuesday. One of the girls escaped,” Jerk Bob looked up suddenly, “But I’m immune right? You said I was immune.”
“Yes, yes,” sweatshirt man said excitedly. Jerk Bob sagged with relief. Sweatshirt man turned to face the corn fields, “You got it?” he asked the air, “Is it enough?”
Suddenly floodlights filled the night sky. My hiding place in the now shadow-less shadows was no longer safe. The lights blinded me and I covered my eyes as pain shot through them, I fell against the wall as a full on panic attack came at me full force.
Police sirens pierced the calm. I could hear what seemed like hundreds of boots running along the porch. Above it all I heard Bella-May’s screaming. I forced myself to calm down, using my inhaler to steady my breathing. I gathered my courage and looked up. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the lights.
Slowly my vision returned to me. I saw people run out of the house. First there were about five police men, leading the way to a whole fleet of police vehicles sitting in front of the house. Then came a shrieking Aunt Margaret, clutching an even louder Bella-May.
“There are kids in the house!” shouted Uncle John’s voice from inside the building.
Uncle Stephen stumbled past me, towards the crowd. I followed him in haste. My mom was screaming my name. I ran to her and she pulled me close. I embraced her back, trying to retain a small piece of the reality that was crashing down all around me.
Relatives swarmed around in confusion. I caught a glimpse of Jackie, hiding underneath the porch. Dogs were barking, Bob Ross was crying. Chickens were being trampled, their dying cries drowned out by the mayhem encompassing us all.
Another set of policemen came out of the house, this one led by a very proud-looking man in a dark sweatshirt. An armed guard, escorting a handcuffed prisoner, rushed towards the waiting police cars.
“Wait!” Uncle Stephen stumbled forward, “Wait! You can’t take… that’s my wife!” He fell over as he chased after the police men that were hauling my Aunt Maria bodily away in handcuffs. The police simply stepped around him, ignoring his presence all together. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Uncle John silently bend down and help him stand.
“You can’t arrest me!” Aunt Maria proclaimed hotly, “I am a United States Senator! I represent this state in Washington D. C.! I have rights!”
“You have the right to remain silent,” the sweatshirt man began as he forced Aunt Maria into to back of the police car. The smile on his face almost tore it in half.
I coughed and reached for my inhaler as the smog of the city invaded the car. My parents had been silent the entire trip back. We only had about an hour left before we were home.
“Well,” my mother finally ventured, “Well.” That was all she could say.
So I jumped in.
“Next year, I’m going to journalism camp,” I said.
“We’ll see,” replied my mother, “we might just want to stick together. I’ve had enough dirty crime to last a lifetime.”
“No,” I said, “I am going to camp.”
“If we have the money, Topher, then maybe,” my father ventured, peering at me through the rearview mirror.
“Oh, we have the money. I know that for a fact. And it’s not dirty either. It’s very clean. Almost like you stuck it in the laundry,” I said. I let my words echo in their heads, my voice saturated with meaning.
Robert slammed on the brakes and we all jerked forward.
“W-what did you say?” he asked. They both stared straight ahead, unmoving. Not even breathing. Cars honked and passed us, their drivers shouting obscenities. None of us paid them any attention. An icy stillness enveloped the car.
“You heard me,” I replied stonily, “I am going to journalism camp.”
Silently Robert pressed the accelerator and we started to move towards home again.
We were silent for the rest of the hour.
We were silent for the rest of the year.