whispered in his ear. Bernard picked up another rock, and Georgia swung open the door to the Chop Mop and shouted: “Get out of here, Paul. Just go home. You missed it.” The expression on his face when he recognized her had been terrible. She’d never seen a man so ashamed. She’d wanted to say something kind, but instead she’d shut the door.
Not long after that, Clott’s management announced its plans to close the mill. Nobody bothered writing articles or staging another protest. They were embarrassed, mostly. They’d trusted Paul, and he’d made fools of them. WABI ran a clip of Bedford’s empty Main Street in a sequence entitled, “What if you threw a rally, and nobody came?” But maybe they also knew, just as Paul must have known, that their protests wouldn’t do any good.
And so, when Clott finally shut its doors last month, it came as no surprise to anyone. Despite this, they were all, somehow, surprised. Georgia’s father and three other foremen had been kept on payroll at Clott for an indefinite amount of time. Two days a week they were supposed to administer severance, hire vendors to clean out the mill and the chemicals stored inside it, and sell off all the old machines to the highest bidders. In the mornings now her father watched game shows in his bathrobe. Though he was almost seventy years old, it was only this last month that he had started to look like an old man.
Georgia kept driving down I–95. She had once heard that when you cut a tree, you can hear it scream if you listen very closely. If you traveled ten miles north of Bedford, you might find strips of land cut away, fallen branches, rotting roots, and stumps of trees. You might imagine the historic echo of buzzsaws, or the groaning of the earth itself. A few years ago when she had been driving, just to drive, to get away from the colicky baby whose fretting never ceased, she had discovered the tree graveyard. She’d pulled over to the side of the road and touched the massive stumps. Her fingers had traced their ridges: countless years recorded by slim bands of wood. She listened for the screaming. She never heard it.
At her exit, Georgia turned off the highway. By the time she traversed the Messalonski River, she had managed to forget the trials of the day. She concentrated on the comfortable way the town made her feel. With the heat blasting through the vents and the rain falling hard outside, she felt like she was wrapped inside a warm cocoon.
At six P.M. that Thursday evening she pulled into the driveway of her childhood home, a half mile south of Main Street on a cul-de-sac that led to the parking lot of the Catholic Church of Our Lady of Sorrow.
“You home?” she heard her father call when she got into the house.
“Coming.” She found him playing a hand of solitaire and smoking a cherry cigar behind the desk in his study.
Ed O’Brian was one of the few men she knew who was larger than she. Even now, as his bones shrank with age, when he stood next to her, she never wondered whose shadow was bigger. “Everything hunky-dory?” he asked very slowly and calmly. It was the only way he ever spoke.
Georgia sighed. “Fine. He’s fine. Nine stitches, but he’ll live.”
Ed’s shoulders drooped, and she knew he was relieved. “Good, he needed a whupping.”
“Not funny.”
“Georgie.” He smiled at her. “’Course it’s not funny. You eat dinner?”
“Sort of.”
“I’ve got some leftover garlic steak.”
She pulled up a chair and sat next to him. “Burnt on the outside, bloody on the inside?”
“Yup. The way I like it. You tired?”
“Yeah. But I’m gonna go back and bring him some things.”
“You need a nap,” he said, grinning at her. “You’ve got that funny look in your eyes you get when you’re tired.”
“You think I’m cranky?”
His eyes widened in mock horror and he nodded.
She sighed. “I think I’m cranky, too.”
“You been sleeping okay?”
“No.
Not long after that, Clott’s management announced its plans to close the mill. Nobody bothered writing articles or staging another protest. They were embarrassed, mostly. They’d trusted Paul, and he’d made fools of them. WABI ran a clip of Bedford’s empty Main Street in a sequence entitled, “What if you threw a rally, and nobody came?” But maybe they also knew, just as Paul must have known, that their protests wouldn’t do any good.
And so, when Clott finally shut its doors last month, it came as no surprise to anyone. Despite this, they were all, somehow, surprised. Georgia’s father and three other foremen had been kept on payroll at Clott for an indefinite amount of time. Two days a week they were supposed to administer severance, hire vendors to clean out the mill and the chemicals stored inside it, and sell off all the old machines to the highest bidders. In the mornings now her father watched game shows in his bathrobe. Though he was almost seventy years old, it was only this last month that he had started to look like an old man.
Georgia kept driving down I–95. She had once heard that when you cut a tree, you can hear it scream if you listen very closely. If you traveled ten miles north of Bedford, you might find strips of land cut away, fallen branches, rotting roots, and stumps of trees. You might imagine the historic echo of buzzsaws, or the groaning of the earth itself. A few years ago when she had been driving, just to drive, to get away from the colicky baby whose fretting never ceased, she had discovered the tree graveyard. She’d pulled over to the side of the road and touched the massive stumps. Her fingers had traced their ridges: countless years recorded by slim bands of wood. She listened for the screaming. She never heard it.
At her exit, Georgia turned off the highway. By the time she traversed the Messalonski River, she had managed to forget the trials of the day. She concentrated on the comfortable way the town made her feel. With the heat blasting through the vents and the rain falling hard outside, she felt like she was wrapped inside a warm cocoon.
At six P.M. that Thursday evening she pulled into the driveway of her childhood home, a half mile south of Main Street on a cul-de-sac that led to the parking lot of the Catholic Church of Our Lady of Sorrow.
“You home?” she heard her father call when she got into the house.
“Coming.” She found him playing a hand of solitaire and smoking a cherry cigar behind the desk in his study.
Ed O’Brian was one of the few men she knew who was larger than she. Even now, as his bones shrank with age, when he stood next to her, she never wondered whose shadow was bigger. “Everything hunky-dory?” he asked very slowly and calmly. It was the only way he ever spoke.
Georgia sighed. “Fine. He’s fine. Nine stitches, but he’ll live.”
Ed’s shoulders drooped, and she knew he was relieved. “Good, he needed a whupping.”
“Not funny.”
“Georgie.” He smiled at her. “’Course it’s not funny. You eat dinner?”
“Sort of.”
“I’ve got some leftover garlic steak.”
She pulled up a chair and sat next to him. “Burnt on the outside, bloody on the inside?”
“Yup. The way I like it. You tired?”
“Yeah. But I’m gonna go back and bring him some things.”
“You need a nap,” he said, grinning at her. “You’ve got that funny look in your eyes you get when you’re tired.”
“You think I’m cranky?”
His eyes widened in mock horror and he nodded.
She sighed. “I think I’m cranky, too.”
“You been sleeping okay?”
“No.
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