Over the Threshold by Caroline Schmied Chapter 1

“Okay, everybody ready?” Rhames spoke commandingly. Peter stood as his right-hand man, with Alanna and Colette tucked in neatly next to them. Rhames had taken a moment earlier on to renew the small group’s confidence by telling them of his late-night deductions. He had, absentmindedly, reinforced the belief that having him in charge was the right way to go and they told him so. He had nodded halfheartedly to them, taking note again for the blunder of proving he should be in charge, and accepted his lot. The group resounded with hesitant general “yeses” and then, with some prodding, together resounded an enthusiastic “Yes!” The hesitancy was due to the numerous factors, which had been shared the night before. Rhames and Peter had told of the many dangers they knew of as a group and what they had encountered so far. Rhames then elaborated on his last sixty some odd years, without going into the personal issues that he had discussed with his “family,” as he now referred to Peter, Alanna and Colette. In the end, Rhames had offered the Fitzgerald clan a way out of having to travel with them, and they declined. So Rhames motioned for silence, as did Peter, who could be better seen, and laid his ear on the door. They repeated the steps of silence, listen, open, and close, twenty times before Rhames laid his eyes on a room he deemed worth stepping into. The group poured in behind him, a bit too fast, muffling sighs of pleasure and hisses of complaints. Rhames ignored them both, he knew too well that a large group of people with only one common interest was nearly never satisfied. And they were as large a group as Rhames was comfortable with. There was Mr. Archibald Fitzgerald Sr., his wife, the motherly Mrs. Mary Fitzgerald; their five children, Archie Jr., lovely and temperamental Marty-Jo, Mary Ellen, Catherine Mary, and the amusingly youthful Robert. With them came Marty-Jo’s gangly boyfriend/fiancé, Mr. Chester Holbrook of London, and their farmhand/honorary family member, from their beloved Ireland, Hatch Stevens. Then, the college kids had busted down a sliding glass door, slicing Alanna’s arm and covering her in tiny cuts, the kind that heal practically overnight, and joined the group. They were Trent, Tanja, Kent, Katie, and Mathias. They were eighteen in all, would have been nineteen if Peter hadn’t grabbed up one particularly rude college kid while his temper flared, and thrown him out. There was still an air of mistrust circling through the group. That could be caustic, but acceptance was the general mood for the moment. Most everyone was restless and or irritable. Peter was flexing his muscles and stretching like a caged cat. Others were pacing and a few had settled into twisting their torsos and shaking their limbs while rambling away. Only the nearly comatose Marty-Jo Fitzgerald plopped down into a seat as if she had just run an unwanted mile. She groaned, calling attention. Her mother crossed to her, touched her forehead, then being satisfied at its temperature, leaned the girl forward and rubbed her hand in small circles in the small of the girl’s back. The entire group’s attention was turned as Chester Holbrook rushed to her side, patting her hand and talking sweetly to her. “Is she not well?” Alanna asked, a little surprised. After having sat down to two meals with the young woman, she would have the thought the girl healthy as a horse, she ate like one. “Oh,” Mrs. Mary Fitzgerald sighed, “the poor dear is carrying.” “Carrying what?” It was only after she had asked the stupid question that Alanna realized what they meant. She was a bit embarrassed and offended at the wide-eyed glare Marty-Jo threw her. “Oh! Here? That’s terrible. Oh, uh, no, I’m sorry I didn’t mean how it sounded.” The Fitzgerald girl’s mother waved her hand. “‘Tis alright, do not fash yourself, she’s not yet showing, but she will be soon enough. Her father’s sore worrit for her.” The woman’s brows furrowed, then relaxed into a sympathetic arch. Her glance to Chester was stern with just a touch of viciousness. That explained why the family rarely spoke to the man, he had gotten their poor dear into trouble. She breathed heavy once again and continued to rub the girl’s back. Alanna smiled shyly and backed away. “What’s with Miss Glib 2000?” Peter sarcastically sang into her ear as she backed up to him. “They say she’s pregnant.” “Well, that would explain her high and mighty . . .” “Who say’s they’re pregnant?” Rhames budded in rudely and loudly enough to call the attention of the others around them. Alanna caught Archie Sr. flashing wild stares at them as they gossiped. Stumbling with embarrassed energy, Alanna spilled the beans, “Marty-Jo Fitzgerald.” As they peeked across the room to where the girl sat, surrounded by pampering Fitzgerald women, she finished the story, “And it’s Chester Holbrook’s.” “Now it’s no concern of yours,” The Fitzgerald himself approached them. “We take care of our own. She be no problem and I’ll no’ have you treatin’ her so. ‘Tis bad enough to be dealin’ with such things under these circumstances, she’ll no’ be needin’ harassment from the likes of you.” He was fierce defensive of his troubled daughter and slipping into a thicker Irish lilt as he spoke, standing his ground. “Perhaps we’d best be leavin’ if yon gi’l is a problem to ye.” “Calm down, Mr. Fitzgerald,” the intonation Rhames used was stern, laced with rudeness. “You’re daughter is not pregnant.” “Beggin’ your pardon?” He was not taking it well. The portion of the group not absorbed in the immediate needs of Marty-Jo was now absorbed in the heated argument beginning between Rhames and Archie Sr. As a sign of respect and family, Archie Jr. joined his father, at his side. “Are you calling my sister a liar?” He tried to portray manliness, but came across cutely chivalrous in his sister’s defense. “If she’s the one telling you she got pregnant here in this world, then I’m saying that she is mistaken. If she was pregnant before her entrapment, then I’m telling you that she is pregnant no more.” Rhames spoke with a commander-like calmness, assured. “I believe me daughter knows her own body,” the man tried to sound as confident, but his levity was fading. “That is not what is in question here, sir. The question is of her condition, and I am telling you that it is impossible for her to be pregnant here.” The entire room was silent and listening; although Alanna let out an obvious sigh of relief, shocking Peter. Rhames took a deep breath and noticing that all eyes were on him, especially the goggly eyes of Marty-Jo. So he began again, now sympathetic. “My dear,” he spoke directly to her, obviously upsetting her. “We are unchanging here. I have been a prisoner for over sixty years, I know how this world battles the time cycles of the world in which we were born. Pregnancy is a time of change. It is a metamorphosis that cannot exist on this plane.” He paused to give her and her family time to adjust to the finite facts. “You’re wrong.” She said it simply, jutting out her quivering lower lip and setting her jaw straight. “I know that I am having his baby.” She pointed an accusing finger at a baffled Chester. “No, you are not,” the return was just as simple and blatant. Then Rhames felt a hand on his arm. “You’ll not be disrespectin’ me daughter,” Archie Fitzgerald Sr. was just as plain. Rhames surveyed the faces in the room, even the tired-looking Mr. Fitzgerald Sr., and could see that the seeds of doubt as to the girl’s condition had been planted and would bloom on their own. He need not say anything further, and dropped it. But the girl was not as wise, offended and humiliated, she put on an act of bending to horrible cramps and whimpered that she could lose the baby if subjected further to such ridicule and questioning of her character. Her mother tended her, although not as tenderly as she had before. Marty-Jo decided in that instance that she hated that Dr. Rhames. In her rage, she blurted out, “It’s sorry you’ll all be when I am suffering to death at the cause of your mockery. I am as honest and as faithful a daughter as any could wish for. I do not lie.” “Maybe not, girlie,” Katie “the vulgar” adjusted the snobby girl’s line of sight, “but you do go sleeping around and getting yourself potentially knocked up, don’t you?” Marty-Jo’s eyes leaped open, seething with contempt, “You dare? You whorish . . .” “Takes one to know one,” Katie laughed undaunted, flipping her hair vainly, and turning her back. There was no arguing her point. The truth of both matters stung her, she was either a young foolish girl who got herself into trouble, which was apparently no longer a possibility, or a deceitful whore, running around behind her loving parents’ backs. Even if she played the card, that she had thought she was pregnant, which she had been holding on to for some time as her ticket out of the mess, she was no longer the darling mother-to-be, which had allotted her so much adoration and attention. She clung to her mother, weeping. Mrs. Mary Fitzgerald stroked her daughter’s hair and tried to talk some sense into her. Katie, feeling victorious and notorious, walked over to Kent, the victim of terminal bad mood syndrome. She threw her arms around his neck, jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. From the way he responded, it was obvious that this was a regular act they performed. She whispered in his ear, causing him to grin deviously as he squeezed her backside, pressing his chest to hers. Colette, who was standing closest to the young couple, heard the end portion of the whisper. “And we don’t have to worry about having a damn kid,” was the vile conclusion of their embrace. She felt old, looking at them and somehow felt compelled to give “old people’s advice.” “Don’t forget, you can still die of a disease here. There are no clinics.” Katie blatantly scoffed at her, then began to suck face with Kent. The slurping sounds were awful enough to cause Colette to cross to Rhames and cling to his side, but careful not to touch him too much. Chester Holbrook snuck up next to them, looking inquisitive and just a touch paranoid. “It’s true then that Marty-Jo is not with child?” he coyly questioned. “It’s true,” Rhames answered, patting the gangly fellow on the shoulder. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be.” The statement seemed to be as much of a surprise to Chester as to Colette and Rhames. The man shuddered, perhaps nervous from having said what he had out loud. He smiled suddenly. “It’s a relief, in a way. I don’t know what we would have done exactly.” Rhames and Colette were trying as best they could to be understanding and non-invasive, so they both only nodded. “Her father has been insisting that we find ourselves a priest and be wed first thing.” Poor Chester rubbed his mouth in a fidgety-cogitate manner as he looked over to where Marty-Jo wept in the arms of her mother. The entirety of her family had gone to her side as well. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain that they were most unhappy about her presumed condition. I’m not so sure that they are happy of the opposite either.” He was looking for solace. Rhames gave the chap a placating smile and assured him, “The worst of your worries are behind you. I suggest you concentrate on the present.” Colette understood what Rhames had meant, but it appeared that slow-witted Chester did not. So, she clarified the matter by adding, “Yes, I agree, Marty-Jo looks very unhappy. She’s probably afraid as well, you should go to her.” Mr. Holbrook looked unpleased, but obliged them and the Fitzgeralds. “What? Did you think you were pregnant?” Peter asked the now squirming Alanna. “Well, yes, sort of, I mean, I don’t know.” She spryly twisted the hem of her sweater, avoiding eye contact. Peter enjoyed watching her squirm at the uncomfortable subject. She always had been modest, making her seem all the more erotic when she turned on the charm. “How long have you thought that? And why didn’t you tell me?” His questions were more serious then he let them sound. “Because I didn’t know. Or wasn’t sure to be more accurate. I haven’t had my—” she cut off, widening her eyes, nodding her head and waving her hands in a rolling motion so she wouldn’t have to say the words. Finding her husband completely and most certainly purposely noncompliant she just whispered it, “Period. Thank you very much.” “Since when,” he tried to muffle his chuckle. She was becoming exasperated. “Since we got here.” “Here, to this room?” He was teasing now. “Peter! You can be so obnoxious!” “That’s why you love me.” “No, that’s why I kick your butt from time to time,” she couldn’t help but to smile as she smacked him in the chest. “Now seriously, why didn’t you tell me you were feeling that way?” By now, Alanna could see the twitching ears of all those eavesdropping. She turned Peter away from prying eyes to finish the discussion in hushed whispers. “There was so much going on. At first, we were at Franklin’s and you were not being yourself. You were distracted and busy, and you always looked worried, so I thought I would wait until I was sure. You had enough on your mind, and you are always worried about me, I was giving you a break.” She was smug with her explanation. “Don’t do me any favors, Sweets,” his tone was pure affection. “We are a team. It’s you and me, you and me. Anything you are thinking and feeling, I want to know about. Any thoughts you have, tell me, especially if it’s as huge as having a baby!” He had moved forward, placing his hands gently on her arms and looking into her eyes. She was softened by his sincerity and felt bad that he might feel as though she was keeping things from him. “Okay. Now, I want to talk to you about my theory.” “It’ll have to wait,” Trent cut in. “I’ve been sent out to gather everyone’s attention; your pal’s got something to say.” Rhames was waiting patiently for everyone to quiet themselves; it took a while. Finally he alerted the unawares that there was neither food nor a bathroom connected to the room they occupied and they were going to have to move on. More disgruntled moans ensued followed by what could only be the sound of air rushing in across the room. Wind blew across them, ruffling feathers, and hair, when Kent opened the door. Peter and Rhames rushed toward the open doorway, Alanna and Colette hot on their heels. “Ta da!” the reckless youth gave himself kudos for the find. The kitchen was enormous, nicer than anything they had seen as a group yet. It was something from a modern castle. All the amenities were there, but the charm and royal façade of a medieval scullery. Most prominent was the outstanding servants’ table that graced the center. Surrounded by twenty-two solidly carved armed chairs, the four-foot wide table stretched to at least twenty feet. Fresh vegetables adorned the enormous slab of solid oak, and smoked meats hung from sanitary hooks near the fireplace. There was a rich smell filling the room, roasting meat, something cooking. When the aromatic draft hit the olfactory senses of the bungling few in the back of the group, they pushed forward, shoving Rhames and the others into the unchecked room. The cooking food should have been evidence of more people, yet the room appeared empty, except for the lucky crew that had just walked in. Immediately and with no hesitation whatsoever, the Fitzgerald clan and the college kids innocently began inspecting the bounty. Rhames, Peter, Alanna and Colette stood in the center of the room, apprehensive of their newfound good luck. The cooking meat was actually a thick and bubbling stew, prepared perfectly and for them, timely, too. It was ready to be served. Mrs. Mary Fitzgerald began dishing up the hot meal into unglazed, rustic hand-spun clay bowls. Utensils were located promptly, what with everyone nosing through the counter drawers. Orders had been given to all the women by Mrs. Fitzgerald: peel and chop vegetables, locate napkins and placemats, fill pots with water for boiling and serve drinks. Colette, Alanna, and Katie then barked the orders out, to the men. Everyone ended up pitching in, except Archie Fitzgerald Sr., who sat abruptly, complaining of the modern era. As soon as the table was properly set, all were allowed a break to sit and eat. Peter had found some dense black bread and broke it up into even shares. The chunks were grabbed up and devoured with the savory lamb stew and endless bottles of red wine. No one spoke through the ravenous frenzy. For the first time since joining forces, all were contented. A well-kept and fully functional bathroom was connected to the back of the kitchen. It was around the corner, down a short hallway and offered the privacy of a curtain, instead of a door. Rhames was contented for the moment, but wary of the scrumptious convenience. One bathroom for eighteen people could be a harrowing experience, but this first time, no one complained as they waited their turn. “Pretty fortunate,” Colette smiled at him as she helped him clear the last of the bowls from the table. “Very,” he was so pleased that they were on regular speaking terms again. He wanted so badly to take her in his arms and kiss away all the doubt she had talked herself into where he was concerned. While standing there, looking at her, longing for her, he just didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was slightly concerned about the single door. A single door could be a sanctuary, only one door to block, but it could just as easily be a trap. He found his mind racing protectively in the opposite direction. He wanted her to feel only content, comfortable. She deserved it. “It’s at least twice as big as the kitchen at Franklin’s Place.” She was making polite conversation. “Yes, I’d say so,” he found himself offering unwittingly short replies for fear of saying something to upset her or dropping at her feet to beg her forgiveness for whatever. “You’re apprehensive.” She was learning to read him. The thought made his heart flutter, he couldn’t look at her. “No, it’s a fine place, here is.” What was he saying? His mind raced, he could feel the perspiration tickling his pores, taunting his nerves. From the corner of his eye, he caught her lithe movements; he saw her hair flutter out as she reached across the table. He stared at the back of her head for a moment, he wanted to gather her silky hair in his hands, press his face to it, and breathe in her scent. He could feel his pulse quicken, his juices stir, she was making his mouth water. Control yourself, he warned, closing his eyes and trying to picture anything other than her body beneath his. It wasn’t working. When he opened them she was looking at him. “Henry? Hello?” she giggled. “You called me Henry,” the words were accompanied by betraying breaths. He looked into her silvery eyes. “So,” she took a step back. Then flatly she said, “It doesn’t mean anything,” just before she turned and walked away. But it had. They had both given themselves away. Rhames smiled complacently, telling himself to just give her a little more time. By late afternoon, there had been several arguments over the facilities, one person made sick from overindulging in the wine, and dozens of general complaints filed with Rhames, who had somehow become not just the designated the group leader, but also the group psychiatrist. The room was decorated coldly. There were no windows at all, which was Alanna’s main complaint. The stone tiles were chilly and the wooden chairs beginning to feel unforgiving. Rhames gathered everyone at the table and began to take suggestions. “Let’s move on,” grunted the drunken Kent from beneath his elbows. Katie was avoiding him, complaining that he reeked of vomit, which he did. Alanna scowled as she watched the girl worm her way in closer to Peter. She wrapped her arm possessively around her unsuspecting husband’s. Kent was stubborn and could not be persuaded to go to the loo and wash up. Mrs. Mary Fitzgerald was promising to dump a bucket of cold water over him if he didn’t clean up his act soon. And he had been warned that she would do it, too. “Not while I’ve the dinner cookin’,” Mrs. Mary Fitzgerald countered the suggestion to move on. Kent only made an exasperated sound at her response, to which Mathias returned with commentary on Americans’ lack of fortitude in holding their booze. “Let’s at least stay the night. ‘Tis a nice place it is, an’ we’ll be needin’ the food.” It was Archie Fitzgerald Sr. who would really tip the scales when it came to making a move. For as stubborn as young Kent could ever wish to be, he was no match for the grand master. “I agree that we should stay the night.” The mitigation was in full swing as Rhames took to the Fitzgerald side. “Is this a democracy?” questioned Trent. “If so, I say we have a vote.” “What do you think we’re doing,” Peter laid his hands down on the table. “We’re suggesting, dawdling, deciding. That’s different from voting,” Trent bolted with a good mix of arrogance and authority. “Okay, then let’s take a vote.” Peter was mildly annoyed at the disrespectful nature of all the young people in attendance. And he was pretty sure his opinion was not in the minority. He had spotted rolling eyes and heard huffs and puffs muffled behind the backs of the aloof. The vote was, naturally, in favor of staying the night, or next several hours, which presented its share of problems. Arguing ensued as small conversations between individuals rang forth, each of the parties believing that their point was the most important. Alanna and Colette, bothered by the ruckus, leaned back for a breath of air. It was ridiculous really, most of the conversations were on the same subject, but none had the patience to wait their turn. Points were being rehashed and talked to death and nothing accomplished. The voices got louder and louder. Alanna covered her ears. As she pressed the heated flesh of her hands to her ringing ears, muffling out the horrendous resonating psychobabble, she thought of the solution. She tried to relay the notion, none could hear her. She tried to tell Colette, knowing that she would agree, but Colette was only yelling that she couldn’t quite understand her. Some were starting to get out of their chairs and pace. Threatening comments of separating the group were made, followed by obstinate compliance in the form of dares. Once the obloquy began, Rhames knew something must be done. He stood up. It made no effect, so, he placed two fingers in his mouth and blew. The whistle was enough to crack the dishes. It certainly got the crowd’s attention. “We seem to have come to an impasse. Does anyone here have anything useful to say?” He slumped back down in his seat. He was getting dirty looks, left and right. “I do,” Alanna stood up. When the whispers began, she thought to speak over them, but found herself annoyed into silence. Peter picked up on her gesture and stood beside her, “Quiet!” he hollered over the table. Mrs. Fitzgerald and a few others noticeably jumped, their nerves still raw from the whistle. He then gently touched his wife’s arm and gave her the platform. “Thank you.” She beamed at him. “Well, my suggestion is that we do what Franklin did.” She caught the horrified looks of her close friends and gave a half laugh on account of them. “Not go psycho, no. Collect! Remember, it’s so simple. We open the door, when we find what we want or need, we bring it back in here!” It was simple, and an idea that was so obvious that laughter and good moods began to spread to all of those who were rambling on just to have their voices heard. “It’s a perfect idea, considering that we must prepare ourselves for whatever lies behind each door,” she added. “It’s just what we need,” Peter said. “We’ll be ready. Now let’s get us some goods.” “Peter,” Rhames secretly called him over for a moment. “Be careful. A single door means a single exit.” Seeing the look in his eye, Peter knew that Rhames was serious. He nodded, patting his friend’s shoulder reassuringly. After the first few pulls of the door, they had collected some ratty-looking pillows and a stinky blanket. But the task was becoming fun as they sorted the rift from the raft and began to lightheartedly joke. “Any requests?” Peter called out. “Anything anyone wants us to keep a particular eye out for?” Shouts of the obvious, feather beds and pillows, filled the room. Then came the real ones. “How about some clean sheets?” “Look for a record player and some records!” That request was backed by several yeses. “Fresh flowers!” “Chocolate!” “A way to get out of this hell hole! Ha, ha, ha.” “How about some Playboy magazines!” Which was followed by some hoots and sneers. Mathias’s face pinkened after he had yelled the requisition.v “A life-sized cardboard cutout of Conrad Bain!” Confusion caused Rhames to turn, as the modern Americans laughed, just in time to see Trent give Kent a high five and chuckle, “That was a good one.” Peter and Alanna were cracking up. The Fitzgeralds remained voluntarily in the dark. As the mood increased, so did the bounty. They had found lush blankets, one beautiful sofa, which had barely fit through the doorway, three plush lounging seats and a bevy of clean pillows to replace the questionable ones they had procured earlier. Just as the task was becoming overly daunting, Peter opened up the door and hit the jackpot. On the center of a stout and thickly embellished mahogany table sat a gramophone. Rhames nearly dropped to his knees. Aside from the various, and sparse, instruments and peoples, he had come across, Rhames had not heard a manufactured song in sixty years plus. The delicate piece was moved with the utmost care and set up in a safe corner of their sanctuary. One record lay on the turntable. It was covered with dust. Rhames hollered as Katie blew, swirling thick chunks of debris across the machine and over it. She smirked, flipped him off, as he stood astounded at her simple vulgarity, and walked away. He shrugged off the insult and carefully began his ministrations in recomposing the instrument for play. The others left him to his new baby and resumed the hunt. It was agreed that maybe two more mattresses, equaling four in total, would be in order for the night, and the search continued. When they had gathered all they felt they needed, good cheer swept through the room, the reward of satisfaction. With some careful planning and just a touch of hard work, the group had set up for a lovely rough-and-tumble game of American pillow football, as exercise was needed all around. Teams were chosen, Captain Trent vs. Captain Peter, and the rules laid out for those not in the know. “This is not a full tackle game,” Trent started in, “only touch. The goal lines are from the end of the table to the end of that countertop, the field being between them.” He added the ending just to be facetious. The mattresses padded the rough stonewalls and pillows were stacked up behind the goal lines. Mrs. Mary Fitzgerald was elected head cheerleader of Peter’s team, since she had no lust for sport. The other sticks in the mud were Marty-Jo and Rhames. Rhames still hovered over the antique, gently swabbing and fidgeting. It appeared that the music box was not in working condition, but he was not going to let that stop him. “Come on, Rhames,” Peter pleaded and was backed by his team. “Take a break. We’re uneven, we need you!” He had tried to keep Alanna out of the game for fear that her arm would be further injured. She had refused, claiming she needed the exercise and that her arm barely hurt anymore. “Plus,” she pointed out, “your team needs me.” He had reluctantly, but enthusiastically agreed. “Come on, man,” Trent’s team joined in the persuading as well. “Peter, you are big enough for two. You can count as a double.” Rhames shied away, concentrating on his work. “Don’t be wimpy, we need you,” there was mockery in Peter’s tone. “Marty-Jo, wouldn’t you like to play,” Rhames tried to push the unwanted attention onto another. The girl ignored him at first, and then rudely outwitted him. “I’ll be the score keeper.” Her sisters made vain attempts at getting her to join, but in the end, subjected her to ridicule over the fear of messing up her lovely hair or getting a bump on her pretty face. While Trent and his brood were fiercely excited for competition, none was more excited than young Robert Patrick Sean Fitzgerald, nicknamed “the Bruce,” for his love of physical battle, which his Da swore to be a strong Scottish trait. “You got all your grandfather’s traits, lad. I never knew of a man more willin’ to throw to fists. The Irish battle with their throats, boy, and you’ve no voice. I believe your mother must ha’ loved a travalin’ man some time back,” he would say in jest. “Leave her be,” young Robert bid sourly about his sister, “she’ll be only in the way and squirmy like. We’ve no need o’ another, we can crush their pansied team o’ faeries!” The comment caused howls of laughter and jeers to ring out. They decided they needed names. Intimidating, opponent-crushing names. It was Peter’s Precarious Pirates against Tempestuous Trent and his Terminators. The lines were set, the teams made ready, and the pillow hucked. The Pirates had won the coin toss, and Peter now carried the small yellow pillow. He strafed, he dove, but oh! was caught by the reaching hand of Hatch Stevens. The Terminators were now in control. The pillow passed, caught close to Kent’s body, but blam! came the forced blow from “the Bruce.” The game continued to get rougher and rougher as the scores rose. They were on a pretty even keel after a half hour or so. The Fitzgerald girls were tiring and eventually backed out, which was fine as there was one to either team. The Fitzgerald men, all three on Peter’s team, were becoming more and more competitive as the game progressed. When tackling ensued, Colette, Alanna, Tanja, and Katie left the game, complaining of testosterone and men in general. Alanna walked to Marty-Jo and checked the score sheet. She was pleasantly surprised to see only a scattering of doodles on the page and no numbers or names at all. The young woman timidly glanced at her, and was unnerved to see a smile instead of the expected frown. “How are you feeling?” Alanna asked politely. “Oh?” She let the self-pitying wheeze of surprise that anyone would care come through. Poor spoiled child, thought Alanna as she recognized the exclamation for what it was. The girl answered that she was feeling better, but sad. Alanna noticed that her sisters had been avoiding her. She thought for a moment to take a cue from those who knew the gloomy girl and back off, but found that she was awkwardly perturbed by this need for suffering. “Sad? Is it because of our situation, or our Mr. Holbrook?” Marty-Jo had to act neither surprised of the married woman’s intuition nor angry that she had referred to Chester as being “ours.” She was not in the mood to talk, but was always ready for some attention, even if it came from someone who hadn’t the slightest chance of comprehending what she was suffering through. “I don’t believe that my relationship with Chester is an appropriate subject,” she attempted to be haughty, but came across as plain old snobby. Alanna’s grin widened, after being let go of the game, she felt the urge and energy to conduct another exploit. And was in no mood to have her kindness, or curiosity, snubbed. “Do you love him?” “Why, that is certainly none o’ you’re business.” Marty-Jo turned in her seat. “I wonder why you’re interested. Don’t you have a man o’ your own ta worry over?” “I don’t think he likes that you are rude and treat people as though they are beneath you.” Alanna didn’t care that the girl’s mother was in earshot and listening in, as were her impetuously nosy sisters. She waited for the girl to get over her shock before continuing. “You could be part of this party if you want to. We are not going to judge you, but we will respond in kind. All of us,” and she motioned to Chester with her eyes. Her mother smiled upon seeing the flash of pleasure in her daughter’s eye as she looked on her young man. The highly pretty, budding woman was so seldom content. “What’s the use?” Marty-Jo’s mouth slid into a frown as she asked her question. “We cannot have children. None of us can have children.” Alanna could see that the issue of childbearing had been harder on the young woman than she originally had thought. Whereas she had been completely relieved to hear Rhames’s point, Marty-Jo had been crushed. “I’m sure that one day you’ll have children.” She attempted to be sympathetic, but in the back of her mind several questions lurked. What kind of woman would want to rear a child in this world? Who in their right mind would want to be pregnant here? Why in the world would anyone want to bring a baby up in such an unhealthy environment? She was bewildered. What happened to children here? “No, I’ll be too old when, if, we get out,” the sigh that followed was pathetic and self-pitting. “I’m already boarder line too old now.” “Why, how old are you?” “Twenty-three already.” Tears sprang to the girl’s eyes. Alanna had to use all of her control not to burst out laughing. “You can’t possibly think you are too old now,” she had failed at shutting out the humor in her tone. “You’re still so young.” “What?” the demeanor of the single word question was cruel. “Should I wait until I’m as old as you? I couldn’t bear it!” A lump had surfaced in the girl’s throat while she spoke, choking her at the end. Alanna wanted to say, “As old as me?” but swallowed a deep breath instead. She truly felt sorry for the girl, she was an incredibly hard person to like. Alanna thought that the girl was lucky she was so pretty. The younger sisters seemed to not suffer so strongly from vanity, yet they could certainly hold their own. She remembered hearing the outcry from the three Fitzgerald girls when they had first begun to understand that they would have to find a purpose other than childbearing to justify their existence in this realm. The memory saddened her and she thought that there had been enough shadowing gloom in the past several days. She would charm the girl in attempts to be helpful. “You are certainly lucky to have a man like Chester love you.” Then quickly added, so there could be no misunderstanding. “I can see that he only has eyes for you.” It was cliché, but it worked. Marty-Jo finally smiled, a real smile, and nodded her head. Chester suddenly had the pillow. It was the last tie-breaking set, whoever scored next, won. Distracted by the glimmer, and flash of white faces turned his way, he lost concentration and turned. He, as well, couldn’t help but to be moved by Marty-Jo’s gleam. Her charm was what had attracted him in the beginning and he was anguished to see it all but staunched when she began complaining of pregnancy. He paused in his game to return the glance, causing all the women to smile, and Marty-Jo to melt. His flirt became his undoing, the pause was just enough for Peter to fling Kent to the mattresses and take the stringy Chester to the ground. The twisted men crashed into an enormous pile of unsteady pillows. With a ploof and a whoosh they flew in all directions, and the mass already in motion, stayed in motion, until connecting with the wall. It was a terrible thud. Robert was already whooping and celebrating the victory of The Pirates. The other two Fitzgerald men, who made for the rest of the team, joined in with victory dances and an enthusiastic pub song about overcoming defeat in the face of overwhelming adversity. They were soon joined by their proud captain. Alanna and Colette cheered for their side with Mary Ellen. While Catherine Mary, whom had been a Terminator, sulked, contesting that a trick had been played against them. She claimed that Alanna had used Marty-Jo to distract Chester, causing him to falter when he would have scored their victory point. Alanna and Colette laughed off the idea, and secretly wished they had thought of so clever a plan.