company of strangers

Going to dinner with Lara was like eating at the same table as Satan, only if Satan had wonderful well-kept blonde hair and exceptional make-up and just terrific taste in shoes, and everything out of Satan’s mouth was just sunshine and perfection. My older sister was back from some riveting adventure in who-cares-where, and everyone at the table was just captivated by how wonderful her life was.

It was bad enough that she hadn’t worn the peacoat I’d bought her for Christmas. You can’t believe all the trouble I went through trying to get it for her; all the money I had to save up from recycling stupid pop bottles I stole out of the neighbor’s bins, or the absolute debacle it was finding a ride to the store, or how absolutely shitty I felt when the clerk told me that this particular peacoat looked a bit old for me, and that a young lady such as myself would be best buying a yellow slicker for the inclement weather. It would suit me better.

He didn’t see, but I stuck my tongue out at him and gave him the bird as I left.

And here was Lovely Lara now, rambling on about car rides across the countryside, and how you just wouldn’t believe how lovely and different the sunsets were in Oregon, oh, you just can’t even imagine. I wanted to puke grandma’s sweet potatoes all over the table just for a change in topic. I can’t even imagine why she wouldn’t wear that peacoat I bought her. I suppose she took one look at it and thought only a troll would wear a coat like that, and despite my best efforts, my face turned all red from the rage I was keeping down.

“Is everything alright, Samantha?” my father asked.
“Oh just fine,” I said, perhaps a bit more biting than I’d liked.
“You’re very red, dear,” said Mother.
“Yes, hmm. I suppose I’m just hot, is all. May I be excused?”
“Of course, love,” Mother replied.
“I’m sorry I won’t get to hear the rest of your wonderfully wonderful story, Lara. It sounds just simply wonderful.”

And with the last words stuck in like a knife to the gut, I stormed away from the table before Lara inevitably thought of a quip more clever than my own, and I reveled in my stolen victory.

I marched right to the door, and put on my galoshes and gloves and my warmest parka, and I slipped out the door before Mother could catch me to clear the table.

A well-worn trail extended from the edge of our yard out to a hedgerow by the fallow fields on the far end of the lawn. Beyond the skimpy grove of trees extended a ruddy length of earth that, in the summertime, was full of fragrant flowers and deep thickets just perfect for nestling up in and reading a book. When I was a little girl, and Lara was perhaps a little less perfect than she is, we would slip away there and she would read to me from her endless collection of Little House on the Prairie books.

How romantic, to live on the edge of danger like that. I made extra sure to stomp in a few puddles as I made way towards that old field. Bits of mud splattered all over, and especially on my pant legs, but I didn’t really care. It was the least I could do for old Mother, who seemed to care far more about Lara’s dumb road trip or whatever than my story about Tommy Stephens and the frog he caught. It was a very rare frog, and there were hardly ever any frogs this far from the river, but everyone said “that’s nice” and Lara kept going on and on about I-5 or whatever. I thought the frog story was genuine, but apparently stupid camping trips with stupid college friends is the absolute pinnacle of interesting.

As I reached the thicket, I thought back to Lara’s very deliberate recitals of those old books, and how the sing-song of her voice had kept me quite enthralled, even if I wasn’t always sure what was going on. I was very little, after all. But now, stomping through the mud, I got to thinking about life on the prairie, and how gorgeous it might be to stand out on the edge of some eternal field of amber as the sun went down, and especially how nice it would be if a particularly handsome man who may or may not look like Tommy except with rougher hands and stronger arms came up and held me close during one of those sunsets.

And when the winter set in, we could sit in our rocking chairs and I could knit us very warm scarves and hats, and Tommy would throw another log on the fire, and he would say “It’s a shame your sister didn’t survive the winter,” and I would say “Perhaps she might have if she’d only worn that coat I’d bought her. If only.” And then I’d tell him of some marvelous frog I had seen by the creek, and he would completely fall all over himself telling me how incredible that is, and what color was it? and were there many?

Before long, I reached the part of the field where the wild grass grew high, and where we would dig in little burrows and lay low all day. I stood there for a while looking at the spot, and thinking about how after Lara left I would come out here and sit for hours, not doing anything. It seemed very empty without her readings. Except in my head, I was standing outside our cabin on the prairie in the summertime, and all around me were herds of buffalo, and in the distance were the whooping calls of the coach drivers urging their caravans Westward, and the songs of wrens and sparrows and the buzz of the bugs in the grass. And on the wind was a voice, a girl, yes, very sweet and very faint, like the whisper of a ghost almost, and perhaps maybe slightly like Lara’s, except maybe not so horrible, singing ring-a-rosie and maybe, just maybe, the sound of an even younger girl’s laugh accompanied it. The wind shifted direction, and what felt like an eternity passed. I stood there with my nose all red and my lips all chapped, and I wondered where those merry little voices had gone.

And I felt very bitter, and the wind was very cold, indeed.