Field of Daisies

Chapter 9

Time apparently flies when you're recalling the past several years of your life. That, or the fact that there is absolutely no traffic. We simply listen to the radio after I finish talking, letting this new information sink in for Theodore.

I stare out the window, not wanting to talk about the Stewards anymore, and count the green cars we pass. I count only three green cars, but twelve orange ones—not a color I'd expect to be common.

Each green car makes me feel increasingly uneasy. "Theodore?" I ask.

"What's up?" He replies, his eyes still on the road.

"Why does your uncle not have any Stewards? As mayor, would that not make sense? Heck, with his Status in the Commerce Field he would have qualified a long time ago."

Theodore waits a few seconds before answering, his eyes unmoved, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't waiting for you to ask. Uncle Duncan and Aunt Gail have always prided themselves on their work-home balance. As Uncle Duncan grew his business, Aunt Gail decided she would stay at home to raise her own kids instead of hiring someone else, like her parents had for her. When Duncan became Mayor, he had enough business and political aids to help him with his work that he was able to continue to support his family and his career without in-home help. I think a lot of it has to do with keeping their home feeling like one instead of an extension of his business affairs, you know?"

I carefully consider Theodore's answer, deciding if I should take it for face value. I feel like there's more to the Moynihan's than I'm being told, but decide not to dwell.

Theodore continues, "If Uncle Duncan becomes mayor, he'll inherit the mayoral Stewards. And with two houses, plus even more responsibilities for Aunt Gail, I don't think they'd turn them down a third time."

"Do you think they should, reject having Stewards I mean?"

"From what you've told me, I think everyone should."

***

As we approach the town sign of where we'll be spending for the night, I read: "Auburn".

"Like your hair," Theodore tells me without any emotion in his voice, reminding me that my hair is no longer chestnut. I ignore the lack of inflection in his response, attributing it to the long drive.

"Is that why we are staying here?" I jokingly ask. I wonder when I'll get my verbal use of contractions back. I'll have to start working on that to sound more like a human and less like a formal robot.

He replies timidly, "Yeah, actually."

I don't know how to feel about this: flattery, amusement, surprise? I dismiss what he's said as nothing more than convenient—certainly not admiration, right? These thoughts only make me think that I must want attention.

"Cool," is all I muster, trying to keep my voice even.

We pull into the driveway of a sizeable house, park, and take stock of the remaining food Theodore hastily procured earlier. There's nothing more than dried banana chips and craisins—yuck— since Theodore chewed his way through all of the granola bars. His cousin really messed up our food plans. We agree to drop our stuff inside and search for a place for takeout. He'll pick it up and I'll stay here out of an abundance of caution.

The guesthouse is a quaint one-bed one-bath, paling in comparison to its counterpart. There is a small kitchen with a breakfast table surrounded by only three chairs and two vintage-looking armchairs found in a little sitting area with a coffee table between them. There isn't even a couch, or a loveseat. At least the walls are all painted solid neutral colors and not plastered with wallpaper.