Things I Wrote at One Time or Another

Omelas; "February"

A/N: part two

The majority placed their hands together in prayer in the town's grand church, Saint Genova, the rest— The Jews, Buddhists, Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons, and conservative Christians— resided in their church houses up towards the hills that neared the next town over or were vested within their own homes in quiet worship. Within Saint Genova, with its streaming stained glass windows, strong candle and wood scent, and golden lit dome that enclosed everyone within it's own shining rays, were two long rows of seats. It was never discussed or enforced, yet, the aisle would be separating the "dirt skinned" and the "dirt lovers" from their ivory skin and handkerchiefs, rose-caked cheeks, pressed suits and cardigans. No one threw fits if a Caribbean woman bothered to sit on their side, on the right— though awkward silence ensued and hands were firmly pressed against her fellow lady's handbag. It happened once, when old Irene McKay lost her seat to Ramona Alleyne, and usually no one bothered to see if the damned woman was able to get out of bed. Yet as soon as Miss Alleyne sauntered in and sat down in her Barbados-cloth made dress, her dainty feet hidden within her blossom embroidered and street-stained flats, everyone in and around the row turned their heads and immediately asked each other if Irene McKay had gotten sick during those short snow days.

Ramona Alleyne had recently immigrated from the island of Barbados and had acquired a job in the Southern part of town as a cashier and maintenance person in a salon. Women were already beginning to ostracize her for her inviting lips and complementing bosom. But besides waiting to mark her as the town's newly appointed whore, they were shocked to find her dim enough to lack the common sense requisite to fitting into the community. Patria Rosado watched as Miss Alleyne straightened her back and kept her eyes fixed on the shining gold of the dome and the way it's column fastened themselves to the scenery. Men gazed at her and women snickered at the foolish smile she let curve on her lips whenever someone welcomed her and she'd reply in her thick island accent and outstretched her hand only to be waved down with their gloved ones. She'd ask if she could look on to someone's hymnal and wouldn't hesitate to lean in, even if she smelled like coucou or pelau. Her amber skin and long dreadlocks stood against the rows of alabaster skin and neat buns. Patria was fascinated.

She often glanced back at Ramona Alleyne and the faces of those around her whenever the sermon seemed to drag on, doing her best to avoid eye contact with anyone or getting a nudge from her mother, warning her to focus. When the worship was over they lit a candle, doused their fingers and temples with holy water and slipped on their sweaters and coats to face the weather outside.

Haste and hungry, Patria waited for her mother and her younger brother on the church steps, hearing her mother as she discussed news and gossip with other women and watched her brother as he chased around a few other kids with dirty snowballs. Childish exclaims filled her ears as cars rumbled by, small feet careful not to trip off the sidewalk and onto the street. She pressed her arms against the railing, looking around beside her to find Theodore Santana, clad in his sunday suit under his coat. He was brought into a discussion by a couple of veterans, patting his back like a proud father as he held his girlfriend's hand. His grandparents soon arrived, laughing at something the veterans said and escorted the young couple towards their jeep, someone had called out and Theodore turned around, flashing a smile towards them. Patria glanced towards the group hanging around the fences, a few students from their high school, the rest were middle schoolers, the one who had called out was his friend Nicholas Young, an old friend Patria used to play with in first grade when all the other girls thought she had lice. She watched as he cooed and laughed with his friends as Theodore helped his girlfriend into the car. Patria looked away, ready to stand up straight and look for her mother, though her movement was halted by a quick glance back towards the jeep where Theodore was walking towards his side. He met her eyes and gave her a small wave.

Patria had only ever spoken with Theodore once, in eighth grade when his mother came over to get her fortune read by Patria's mother, Satira. They had gone to different schools then, but even so she found him saint-like and kind— smiling at her mother and waiting patiently in the living room as secrets were discussed behind closed, worn-out doors. And while he held his manners, cultural quirks still rung like his lusty laugh and his accent when he spoke Spanish, the way the words rolled off his tongue and sang when he smiled.

He was the only visitor she didn't mind. Her mother seemed to spark rumors of witchery among the church for her fortune telling and odd exchanges: love potions and herbal remedies, oraciones of the like. Despite this, she kept going to church and dragging her children along with her to suffer the hours and hours of hymns, sermons and preachings from the Bible. It's come to the point where Patria has to drown them out and distract herself with old books from home or try to translate the Latin hymns in order to keep her from falling asleep. It had become almost extinct over the years, keeping her head forward but her eyes wandering and her ears drowning out any noise. She did the same whenever her mother brought up her father. For ten years she had been the wife of a working man only to find out the truth about where he was getting his money, for the next seven years she did her best to pull them out of turmoil: she moved to Gardberg with her two kids and grabbed whatever job she could and studied to get her GED, when jobs failed she turned to family and when family failed she turned to the cards her mother left her before she died.

Stacks of images of clubs, knights, golden chalices and coins, etc. wrapped in a sheer, linen cloth of marigold. In her cupboards were fragrant oils labeled amor, paz, riqueza, suerte, felicidad and more. Those of wish she'd soak jewelry, petals and pieces of fabric into and hand them to her customers for a fee. Patria never took her workings seriously, yet was curious enough to dip her fingers in the oil labeled amor and pat some carefully around her collar before school while her mother remained asleep. The smell was sweet, and the idea of love was intriguing.