Kindred (8 page)

But I don’t tell my mom the truth. For one, it seems much too late to start admitting I met an angel. For another, not telling anyone (except Mo, and he doesn’t count) hasn’t gotten me into trouble. What if telling my mom brings the angel back? What if this time he’s angry? It was bad enough to meet him for a routine—if that’s what you can call it—assignment. Having an encounter where he’s angry just might kill me.

The thought that I am being punished bubbles up from the dark, bitter part of my mind, but I brush it aside.

When I call my dad for our weekly check-in, my unhappiness with God comes up in a sort of vague, theoretical way.

“Doubt is built into Judaism,” he says as soon as I tell him I’m struggling. I don’t explain that it isn’t my faith that’s wavering, it’s what to do about my newfound religiosity. “The name Israel means ‘he who struggles with God.’ Notice it doesn’t say ‘doubts’; it says ‘struggles.’ The important thing is to
do
, to
act.
” My father is passionate about this, and it’s obvious it’s something he’s thought about. His words give me chills. “The rabbis say we’re judged by our deeds, not our words—and never by our thoughts. So when you have doubt, when you feel anger or bitterness toward God, no one is marking demerits on your soul.”

I wonder when he had his moments of doubt. Perhaps he still does.

“But what if your acts aren’t good enough? What if they aren’t what God had in mind?” I hope he takes this as a rhetorical question.

“That’s just another way of saying you doubt. You can hold on to those feelings, but your actions better be those that follow God’s commandments, that help your fellow man. Do any of us reach our full potential? Is there anyone who could say in all honesty that they couldn’t have done anything more than they did? No. God has set an impossible standard for us. We’re human, fallible, selfish, weak. We do the best we can and live our life. Does that help?”

“No.”

We both laugh.

“There’s this great old saying I learned in rabbinical school that during the day God dictated the Torah to Moses, and at night He explained it to him.” He pauses to let that sink in.

“Then no wonder the rest of us are floundering,” I say. “But I guess that makes sense.”

“Sure it does,” my father says. “Now take care of yourself and call more often. You don’t need a crisis to talk to your old man.” He sounds lonely, and I feel a zing of guilt for not doing more and calling more often. Another thing to add to my list of inadequacies.

“Yeah, Dad.” The phone pressed to my ear is warm. I’m alone in my tiny apartment and I wish my dad were here. “And thanks.”

*  *  *

The Saturday farmers’ market is held under a large wooden shelter next to an empty parking lot I’d passed several times during the week without paying much attention to it. Now the lot is so overflowing with cars that there’s a crooked line of them on the grass by the side of the road.

I park my car, on loan from Frank. I hear the bluegrass music before I see any produce, and as I hike over to the market, I unintentionally keep time with the lively beat that shakes out from under the massive shelter that houses the market. As I draw closer, I see tables piled with mounds of fresh veggies in shiny pyramids and glorious bunches of wildflowers arranged in bouquets that would make Martha Stewart weep with joy. There are stands selling baked goods, homemade cheeses and crafts. The band, up on a tiny stage, consists of four generations of the Winkler family, as a draping sign proclaims. Toothless Great-grandpa, wearing an
I’M THE BOSS
baseball cap, plays the bass; Granny and Dad play the fiddle; while the youngest member of the family, a girl of about ten, looks both embarrassed and pleased as she plays the accordion and is sometimes persuaded to sing in a high, clear voice. They sing Civil War–era melodies that must have been sung in this very town for over a hundred years. As I remember the
H
flags from earlier in the week and Frank’s graphic recounting, the lovely melodies, and plaintive fiddle seem haunting.

I shake off grim thoughts of war and begin jotting down impressions in the small notebook I’ve brought with me: the soft morning air, the scent of crushed basil leaves, the unhurried mix of families, dedicated hippies in vegan shoes and
conservative social pillars picking through wildflower bouquets probably intended for their evening’s dinner parties. I’m trying to stay a detached observer, but the market is such fun that I find myself beguiled by it. I tuck the notebook into a back pocket, as I am unable to resist buying spring baby lettuce, a bright, happy bunch of sunflowers and strawberries that smell like perfume.

A deeply tanned woman in overalls bags my strawberries and we start chatting.

“Yeah, I am new here,” I say, answering her question. “I work for the
Gazette.
” I love saying that. I tilt a hip so she can see the reporter’s pad poking out. “I’m actually on assignment,” I say. “But I’m mixing business and pleasure.”

Her eyes gleam with interest, so I ask her a few questions about her farm, how long she’s been coming to the market and what’s in season. Juggling the bag of produce on my arm, I write down her comments. The bags are slipping, but I don’t want to hug them too tightly, since the lettuce and strawberries could squish. The flowers keep poking me in the eye. I feel a blush coming on; I must seem like such an amateur. There’s a reason mixing business and pleasure is usually a bad idea.

“Your parents must be proud of you, beautiful,” she says, giving me a chance to finish writing her last quote.

I look up from my notepad and smile. “Thanks.”

“You should come by the farm one day,” she says. “Might make a nice story, and even if it doesn’t, you’d like it there.”

“Really?”

“Sure. We’ll put you to work. I can tell you’re a city girl. You should see where your food comes from.”

“Yeah, I should. I’m Miriam,” I say, shifting my packages so we can shake hands.

“Trudy,” she says. “That’s Hank over there.”

She points to a man, wrinkled and tanned, unloading more produce, adding it to their table loaded with big juicy strawberries, long stalks of rhubarb, small mountains of sugar snap peas and a complicated structure of broccoli. He’s tall and thin, like a younger version of the farmer in
American Gothic
. He’s missing a pitchfork and glasses, and he has a trimmed beard, but he has the same patient look and gaunt frame of the man in the painting. He looks up when he hears his name. I wave.

As I fumble for my wallet to pay for my purchase, Trudy pushes away the money. “This is your welcome present to Hamilton,” she says over my protests. “Come to the farm,” she says again, and squeezes my hand. She gives me a recipe for tomato-and-cheese pie, assures me it’s easy and delicious and turns to help the next person in line.

I leave the market clutching my veggies, my flowers and my first story idea.

I spend the rest of the weekend polishing up the farmers’ market piece. I’ve interviewed a young mom and her three-year-old, his mouth stained bright red from strawberries. A city official has given me a couple of statistics on how much revenue the market brings in, how long it’s been active. I move the quotes around in the story, write three different leads and e-mail my favorite three drafts to my mom, my dad and Mo to help me choose which is best. When they e-mail
back with opinions and each with a different favorite opening, I spend another couple of hours debating whether to implement their suggestions or not. In the end, I keep the article as I first wrote it.

On Monday, back at the office, I print out the article and show it to Frank. I hold my breath as he skims it, waiting for his reaction. Less than a minute after he’s started reading it, he nods and puts it down.

“Good,” he says. “We’ll run it Friday.”

I fight to pull off a blasé face, as if I regularly have articles accepted for publication. From Frank’s suppressed smile, I can tell I’m not fooling anyone.

“I think there’s another story there,” I say with studied casualness. “That vendor I quoted from Sweetwater Farm is local. It’s the only CSA farm in the county.”

Frank, now clicking at something on his computer screen, utters a distracted “Hmm?”

“It’s where people pay for the farm costs and then get a share of the harvest. It’s all organic. All local.”

He stops typing and thinks for a second. “Are they hippies?” he asks suspiciously.

“Only a little.”

His tongue pokes around his mouth. He sucks his teeth. I hold my breath.

“Yes, it could work,” he finally says. “Is it safe to presume you’d like to cover this?”

I try to play cool, but my whole face lights up in excitement. Frank laughs. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Yes!”

“All right, Miriam. Six hundred words. You have until the end of the month.”

I float back to my desk, grinning like a fool.

I e-mail Mo and my parents, so excited I can barely stand it. This is even better than my first published piece. This is my first story idea. I shoot Trudy an e-mail with the news and ask for a good time to come over for the interview. Although a lot of reporters interview a subject over the phone, or even by e-mail, the best reporting is done when you meet face to face. Plus, I want to see this farm for myself. I’m too wound up to do interviews for a story on the city council’s vote to move trash pickup from Mondays to Tuesdays. I glance through the list of upcoming topics. There’s a rumor that the superintendent is considering putting in metal detectors at the local high school. It sounds ridiculous to me in this quaint town, but maybe there’s a history of trouble I haven’t heard about. I start making notes to research school violence in Hamilton, but before I know it, I get distracted by stupid links and online articles on organic gardening, and then by daydreams of writing a feature on Trudy. I know she won’t answer my e-mail immediately, so when I smell a fresh pot of coffee brewing, I head to the break room.

In his mid-twenties, Alex is the closest to my age among the
Gazette
’s staff. Of medium height and with a prematurely receding hairline, he’s tanned and lean from the long rambles he takes through the woods, searching for Civil War artifacts. It’s an open secret that he’s working on a novel about the
Civil War battle that took place in Hamilton—the bloodiest three hours of the war, or whatever Frank had called it.

As we wait for the fresh pot of coffee to finish brewing, I bring up the
H
flags, which leads us to an involved discussion about local history.

“It’s so creepy,” I tell him.

“What do you mean?”

“I know you’re a big Civil War buff,” I say. “So I guess you’ve always felt this connection to the past, but for me it was surreal to walk through town and see all these flags marking basic carnage. It really made me see this place in a different light.”

Alex beams approvingly at me, as if I’ve just signed on to join his church.

“That’s exactly it,” he says. “Most people don’t get it. But everything is built on what came before. And for us here in Hamilton, what came before—and not that long ago—changed the entire course of American history.

“People here take it for granted. They grew up with family stories of the war; it’s just a part of who they are. But as an outsider coming here, I can’t believe they don’t take better care of what they have.” Which is when he tells me about his secret: an unexcavated, almost totally unknown Civil War site.

“Can you imagine an entire Civil War Union Army headquarters all grown over, unexcavated? It’s not even marked with a National Register of Historic Places sign, and heck, any house built before 1950 can get that. When you walk
there, you can practically hear the soldiers, smell the campfires.” His eyes blaze with the fierce joy I usually expect from religious converts and cult members.

“How do you know about it?” I ask.

“I’d heard people talk about it. It was built by the Confederates, then taken over by the Union Army. I knew it had to be near water and pretty close to town. So I started hiking in the general area by the river until I found it. It’s not like the locals don’t know it’s there. They do. They just don’t think it’s anything special.” He shakes his head in bafflement.

Alex tends to monopolize conversations and nearly always talks about the Civil War, but I enjoy chatting with him in the break room. He might be an odd duck, as Frank would say, but he’s always friendly and treats me as a fully legitimate reporter. The other three employees are much older than me and, aside from a genial “Good morning,” don’t waste too much time chatting. Sometimes there’s a high school intern lurking about, but every couple of months it’s a new kid, and this month’s kid bailed after a week. A new intern starts soon, and I wonder if we’ll get along or if it’ll be weird to have someone basically my age around who’s an intern while I’m a full-time employee.

“In all the time I’ve hiked there, I’ve never seen anyone else,” Alex says. “I’m writing up a grant proposal, going to see if I can’t get UT students to come excavate it.”

The coffee machine sputters, signaling the brewing process is complete. I wait as Alex pours himself a mug of the awful stuff. Even fresh, it tastes bitter and slightly burned. He douses
it with creamer, then rips open two packets of sweetener, dumping them in for good measure.

“The fact that it’s abandoned and forgotten, that’s freaking incredible.” I’ve lost track of the conversation, and it takes me a moment to realize he’s still talking about the Union headquarters. Even for Alex, this has been a remarkably long exegesis. “It’s what every Civil War buff dreams of, to discover something like that. But it’s too important. It belongs on the National Register.”

A part of me wants to tell him that we already know all about the Civil War, that it’s not like we need to dig up clues to figure out who won or how they did it, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

“Next time you go, I’ll come with you,” I say. Though his excitement is a bit silly, there’s something about his description of the place that’s compelling. New in town with no friends, I’ll volunteer to tag along on just about anything.