death, I said.
Until he met his death, he agreed.
There was no sign of sympathy on the man, but it was hard to see anything under that visor. His eyes flashed green, though they were likely pale blue.
It was a shock, I added. He wasnât that old.
His sister was much younger.
My mother, I replied.
Uncle must have told him about her. I waited for this Parker to tell me more. He didnât. I was in a hurry and wanted to ask about the press, but out of politeness found myself filling the silence. I saw a man last night, I said, dressed all in white, which you have to admitâ
I waited for him to finish my sentence. Is absurd, he mightâve said. Foolhardy in a coal town. Again he didnât respond, so I added, His hands were tied behind his back!
Hmmph, he said.
Then I almost fell into a black hole in the middle of the street. There should be signsâ
Mind the holes! he said. Exploratory digs, theyâre everywhere.
Well I suppose.
No supposing. Itâs a fact. This is a mining town.
I studied the shelves above his head. Tins of peas and corn, of beets, of sardines and corned beef, of peaches and pears. To the side, in the corner, a pickle barrel.
His thin voice dragged my eyes back. You ready to run the newspaper, Miss?
Lila, I repeated. I plucked my notebook from my pocket and gave it a flutter. Ready for news, I replied. I taught grammar once, and history.
That last fact was to make me seem some sort of expert, though Iâd actually found the schoolchildren to be worse demons than my little brothers.
Not what I meant, exactly, he said.
You mean because Iâm a woman.
Could be, he said, drawing out the words. You a woman who knows how to run the machines?
My arms went loose. Heâd found me out. The wasp thumped against my ribs again, desperate for escape.
Didnât think so, he said.
I shook my head, thoughts ranging until they latched onto a point of logic. Thatâs why Iâm here, I said, to ask you who my uncle had to run them.
Ran them himself.
In addition to writing all of his articles? And interviewing? Going to meetingsâ
Then I stopped. How much did I want this Parker knowing about me and my concerns? And the fact that, clearly, I had not expected to operate machinery. Tinker with the parts, certainly, as I had done already, just to see if I could. But I had thought thereâd be someone else. At least, I hadnât thought at all about whether there would or wouldnât be someone else. I hadnât thought at all beyond digging up news and writing it down. I knew that would mean running the business, too, and I looked forward to it, just as I had when my brothers went overseas, all four of them, and Father and I were left to run the fruit farm. We did a good job. I did a good job, more and more it was left up to me, to cut the orchard grass and pick the fruit, load it up and drive the truckload to the jam factory in town. When the war ended and the twins and Robbie came back, Father suggested that if I wasnât going to marry I needed to find a way to take care of myself. Had I said I wouldnât marry? I was still sore about the Poznikoff boy at the jam factory, John, whose people were from Russia. Blasted pacifists, our father said. You stay away from that coward. Why should our Will have to sacrifice his life, when a Doukhobor can fold his arms and refuse to fight? I said how else could I meet a boyâthe rest had been blown to bits. And more things, many more things said that day, too many to dwell on now, in the General Store. It was enough to recall that Father took over the runs and then the boys returned and I was left with teaching as my future. And now? I just assumed thereâd be an assistant, an apprentice, I donât know, someone more familiar with the intricacies of producing the newspaper: setting the type and loading it, if thatâs even what the process was called, adjusting the pressure, fixing a paper jam and
Rebecca Lorino Pond, Rebecca Anthony Lorino