The Escapist's Tale

18: Things We Don't Speak About

The adults spent my birthday hungover, and the night drinking gin was never mentioned further. My caretakers spent the rest of their stay in silence. Though I tried to get Mr. Carpenter to tell me more regarding the murders and the assembly, he would bat me off with a belch reminiscent of yesterdays consumables.

When father finally returned, I decided it was best not to mention anything that happened over dinner. I thanked him for the gift. He explained it was decorative, designed by an archaeologist fascinated with Vikings- a "Baltic knife of some sort."

Decorative? With the hatchet man loose, I've decided to keep the thing on me, tucked in the folds of my skirt.

"Look at this-" my father sighs standing in the path of cool air from the open icebox, "-nothing to eat."

"There's leftover soup." I respond, indicating a glass container that my father wrinkles his nose at. Vegetable goop. 

"What's in it?"

"Uh- beets, carrots-"

"No, thank you. It's time to make a list. Let's go to the market."

I feel the need to defend Mrs. Carpenter's creation, "It's good- try it."

Tying a patterned scarf around his neck and straitening his suit, father raises a russet eyebrow at me. The graying streaks in his hair make him look quite sophisticated in his outfit. "Your Aunt Ada never could get me to eat a beet, and I love her dearly. Mrs. Carpenter won't sneak one on me now. Put on your coat."

The market sets up every morning in the town square, a place where the poor can pedal goods fresh from the dirt. Everything here from potatoes to boots are taxed for industrialism and military growth. The Soviet runs California like a machine, a money-making, war profiting machine. Officers like Anatoly get special privileges, something my father benefits from thanks to his role as the Justice. Meanwhile, folks like the Carpenters are the bottom of the barrel, and enjoy no benefits. The Carpenter's don't even have the luxury of a refrigerator, and use a cellar to keep their food from spoiling.

Anatoly waits by the mouth of the market, distracted by Californian brewed vodka. His pale eyes flash with delight from one glass bottle to the next. Licking his thin lips, he selects one of the brands from the tabletop for further inspection.

A slight snowfall paints the ground in a light frost which footprints easily break. I unbutton a set of gloves from the end of my sweetpea printed scarf, enclosing my fingers in knitted wool as father stalks the vendors ahead of me. Rough men and women of all ages shout the details of their wares at a mile a minute.

A young woman I don't recognize smiles at me over a wooden stand filled with straw and eggs; her hair is the same color as the flaxen needles below. It sticks straight up, trimmed close to her ears which are long and pointy. Her teeth are sharp, too, regarding me with a smile.
"Hey, you- come over here."

Reluctantly, I walk towards the vendor.

"Is that tall fellow your father? Lu?"

"It's Lucius- and, yes- he's my father."

"I'll be damned. I never see you at the market, kid. What's your name?"

"Agatha- I hardly ever tag along."

"Agatha. Huh."

I chew my lip. Should I buy some eggs? Father prefers them sunny-side up, but I like mine scrambled.

"Well, Agatha. My name's Bonnie." Her eyes remind me of daisies, bright, captivating, and amber.

"Bonnie? Wasn't it Sarah yesterday?" a familiar voice laughs behind me.

Mac.

"It's 'Bonnie' today." she winks at me. "What has your pasty ass walking around in broad daylight, Mac? Won't you burst into flames?"

Is there anyone Mac doesn't know?

Mac leans against my shoulder, rolling his eyes at Bonnie. He's dressed from head to toe in black unlike his usual colorful attire, including a thick trench-coat. I think this suits him better. The shock of red hair on his head is greased and combed behind his ears, a bang slipping in front of his serpentine eyes. A smile forms below his crooked nose.

Speaking to me, Bonnie says, "Gingers, imma right?"

"He has his moments."

Mac elbows me, "Where have you been? I wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday?"

How did you know? I begin to ask before father disrupts me.

A giant, black-gloved paw grips my shoulder and rips me away from the stall. "You- I told you to keep away from my daughter."

Mac raises his hands to his side with a shrug, "I'm just trying to protect her, padre. You've done a pretty piss-poor job of it."

"Keep your mouth shut. I know how to take care of my own daughter, and I don't want you around her."

"If by 'take care of' you mean expose her to Mr. Politsiya over there-" Mac indicates Anatoly with his head. Anatoly was too busy trying a sample of vodka to notice father's exchange. Mac continued, "she would be better off with me any day, Lu. That man's dangerous. You think he'll care if you flash some money in his face? If he decides to make Agatha go poof, there's nothing you can do to stop him."

"I'm this close to hitting you. Do us both a favor, and back off."

"Come on, Lu. We're family."

Family.

Family?

"Dad-"

"Look- she doesn't even know who I am. You trying to keep her in a box or something?"

For a second, I think my father's going to hit Mac- again. In a panic, I grab his arm, "Stop!"

"Listen, Agatha. If you need to escape from this nut job, you're welcome at my place anytime." Mac walks directly in front of my father. Both of them have bloodshot eyes. "You're going crazy, Lu."

My father spits at Mac's feet, the shoes he's always shining. Mac digs into one of his pockets and pulls out a pack of CCCP. He extracts a single cigarette. Blowing a cloud of smoke in father's face, he winks at me, "See you later, Aggy, darling."

With that, Mac disappears down an alleyway, an ember in the dark.

Bonnie clears her throat, "Hi, Justice. How ya doin'? I've got eggs so fresh from the hen, you'll have to wash the stench of ass off 'em."