Harbingers
Early Summer 2018
Charley jerked her head away too late. The scramble of bloody fur on the asphalt imprinted itself on her brain as a shudder coursed through her body. She stopped jogging at the edge of the two-lane thoroughfare slicing through the heart of Founders Park, resisting the urge to flee past the carcass. Instead, she inched closer, feeling an obligation to acknowledge the damage and her potential role in it.
The squirrel lay on its back, mouth agape in a silent scream. A spot of red blossomed across the white canvas of its belly. She jumped as a passing breeze fluttered the wispy tail. Shuddering again, she embraced her torso, the internal heat from her morning run entirely dissipated.
“I’m so sorry, squirrel. I hope you don’t have babies at home who need you.”
At a loss for anything else to say or do, she moved on, crossing the street and continuing down the park trail. She broke into a fast jog, not to outrun the generous raindrops that had begun plunking on the trail, but to hasten her trip home so she could bury the roadkill image behind her rigid morning regimen.
Back in her bare apartment above City Books, she stopped in the bathroom to turn on the shower—number one—then hung her sweaty jogging shorts and tank top off the sides of the laundry basket in her bedroom—number two. Number three, while the water warmed, she pulled out black jeans and a short-sleeved top. By the time she scrubbed herself in the shower, dressed, pulled her long wet hair into a high messy bun, and scarfed down a bowl of cereal—numbers four through seven—the notion that she somehow bore responsibility for the squirrel had been temporarily tucked away in a protective recess of her mind.
Number eight, she brushed her teeth while the cat balanced on the side of the tub and watched. Number nine, she affixed her name tag to her shirt and ran her thumb back and forth over the word Charley before—number ten—collecting her keys and cell phone and heading downstairs to prepare the bookstore for opening.
***
Charley raised an eyebrow as she turned the dented doorknob of the store’s back entrance. Already open. Since Georgina promoted Charley to store manager of City Books last year, the owner rarely arrived first. Some days, it seemed Charley was the one in charge, which suited her fine since the shop was her home away from home or, to be exact, her home under her home.
“Happy birthday!” Georgina rasped from their small, shared office, holding out a chocolate muffin on a thin paper plate, a single lit candle precariously askew on top. Her ash-brown dyed curls bobbed as she nodded and grinned, exposing crooked, coffee-stained teeth.
Charley accepted the muffin and attempted to smile graciously. How, she reasoned, was Georgina to know that Charley’s twenty-ninth birthday was not one to be celebrated? Why would Georgina know that this year, Charley would exist in constant fear of the anvil hanging inches above her head, biding its time before plunging to flatten her for the fourth time? Georgina certainly couldn’t be expected to know that the universe presented Charley with a freshly slaughtered squirrel in the park that morning, a clear harbinger of another tragedy to come.
Charley blew out the candle and mumbled thanks.
“What are you doing to celebrate?” Georgina asked, smoker’s wrinkles pointing to her mouth from all directions.
Charley picked at the muffin’s wrapper, physically incapable of looking someone in the eye while lying. “Going out with friends, I think.”
“Good for you.” Georgina placed her leopard-print reading glasses on her nose and returned to her paperwork.
Charley took a pen from the desk and stuck it in her damp bun. She grabbed a notebook in one hand, balanced the muffin on its flimsy plate in the other, and headed for the front of the store.
An hour later, perched on a stool behind the sleeping cash register, Charley stared blankly at an order form for upcoming hardcover and paperback releases, a neglected cup of mint tea off to the side. She flinched when a hand nudged her shoulder.
“So sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you,” the customer said. “I did utter ‘excuse me’ a few times, but you didn’t hear me.”
Charley blinked and forced herself to focus on the casually dressed man. He was about her age, tall and wiry, with a mess of dirty blonde hair almost reaching his shoulders, blue eyes, a thin, slightly hooked nose, and a short beard glistening with a few apparently unfelt raindrops.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, her shoulder buzzing as if he’d left behind an electric residue. “What can I help you with?”
He pointed to her name tag. “First, I must inquire—did you lose your own name tag?”
Her hand flew past the name tag and landed near her mouth, covering the small mole under her lip, which resembled a stray crumb from whatever she’d last been eating.
“No, this is mine,” she said with a defensive edge.
“No offense intended. I only implied it might be the property of another because I’ve been known to pilfer a name tag or two in my time, usually because I misplaced my own. I’ve masqueraded as Melvin and Harry as a result.” He spoke in a laid-back style bordering on a drawl, in complete contrast to his stilted, formal words. “But of course, you’re Charley. It fits.”
While he talked, she stared at the countertop between them. She didn’t pay much attention to customers, so she couldn’t be sure if he’d been in before. To Charley, a customer was merely a set of hands dropping books next to the register and handing her a credit or debit card, or an inquiry at the tiny customer service desk leading to an enthusiastic treasure hunt to find the book in question. This guy, however, to her surprise and discomfort, had physically touched her and insisted she notice him in less than two minutes.
“It was presumptuous of me to project my foibles onto you,” he continued, “I do apologize.” He bowed slightly with his hand to his heart. Charley half expected him to tack on “my fair maiden” at the end of this short speech. “I’m Xander, by the way. Not Harry, or Melvin.”
He grinned and extended a hand. She turned away as if suddenly distracted by an essential task behind her. “Can I help you find something? Or are you ready to pay?” she said over her shoulder, knowing the second question was inane because he was empty-handed. Turning back to face him, it appeared he hadn’t heard her. She repeated her first question.
He leaned in and smiled. “I seek a book on dog training.”
Charley nodded, walked around the corner of the counter, and headed toward the Pets section. Xander took the cue and followed her through the store.
“Wandering patrons. Enlightened between covers. A sight to behold.” Charley’s head angled toward her shoulder. “Sorry, what?” “Nothing. Just freestyling a little poetry.”
She furrowed her brow but said nothing.
“My dog Fred is practically the perfect canine companion,” Xander said from surprisingly close behind, making her jump although, since she was walking, the jump manifested itself as an odd twitch. “He approaches life with passion and flair, if I may say so without sounding overly proud.” He stretched his words as if savoring each one as it trickled off his tongue. “But he’s acquired a barking habit that may get him evicted if he’s not careful. My challenge is to prevent that, hence the need for the book.”
Charley nodded and moored him to the half-shelf of dog training books before moving back down the aisle toward the front of the store. At the row’s end, she snuck a peek. He was bouncing on his toes while flipping through one of the books, his enthusiasm prompting a rare smile to dawn on Charley’s face.
By the time he came to the cash register to pay, more customers had entered, and Charley was busy ringing up purchases.
“Found what you needed?” she asked when his turn came. “Absolutely. I believe this one will be salubrious.”
She nodded and processed his sale. “Have a nice day,” she said. He
smiled, his blue eyes crinkling as if she’d said something humorous. Her eyes flicked to the next customer.
“And you as well.”
As he left, she scribbled salubrious in her notebook as a reminder to look up the definition on her phone later.
***
Charley’s jumpy movements weren’t lost on Xander, calling to mind a wounded bird pondering its next move.
He crumpled a sheet of paper into a ball, leaned back in his chair, paused to line up his target—the standard-issue wastebasket ten feet away in a room stuffed with six desks—and launched the projectile. It bounced off the rim of the wastebasket to join a party of other makeshift balls dotting the linoleum floor.
Ignoring the throat-clearing and mildly annoyed look from his Wilderness Protection Society colleague two desks away, Xander crumpled another piece of paper while musing upon Charley. She was quite adorable, with brown bangs teasing her eyes and an upturned nose accented by a silver nose ring. Her alabaster skin was accented by a beauty mark that hovered under her full lips, and her emerald eyes— they would be stunning if they weren’t coated with self-doubt.
He half-heartedly tossed another ball at the trash can.
Why, he wondered, did someone so socially awkward work in a retail establishment? More importantly, how did she get that way, and what could he do to help?
Xander sighed and glanced at the door leading to the City Edge Nature Preserve’s grounds. Where the hell was Terrance? The call could come any minute.
The Wilderness Protection Society had been trying for years to buy or obtain lease rights to the land on the west side of Long Lake to expand its City Edge preserve. Then, Wrighton’s largest developer, All- American Development & Construction, finagled a deal to purchase and build on the land. Somehow, the CEO Liam Flammer convinced government officials that the replacement of a half-acre of cracked pavement, broken glass, and litter near the lake made his twenty-three- acre, mixed-use Stone Circle project acceptable. The company had broken ground on the project almost two years ago.
Then—Xander broke into a triumphant grin at the memory—a six- year-old girl walking with her father unknowingly crossed the property line between the nature preserve and Flammer’s Stone Circle site and found a bog turtle. Once the species and threatened status of the turtle were confirmed, Wilderness Protection launched an all-out assault to kill the real estate project and preserve the open land.
Even though Flammer’s environmental consultant had convinced government officials the land wasn’t wetlands, Xander knew that was bull. And wetlands represent to nature what the kidneys represent to the human body. They extract toxins and waste, and they balance and clean the water. So Xander organized a grassroots outreach campaign using the theme “Save The Turtles, Save Our Water.”
On Terrance’s first day at Wilderness Protection, Xander learned the new communications director wasn’t enamored with the campaign, making Xander less than enamored with the new guy.
After giving him a tour of the grounds, Xander had stopped at the concrete barrier demarcating the border between the preserve and Flammer’s land. “I know you hail from out-of-state and haven’t worked at a land conservation organization before,” Xander had drawled, “but
if you’ve got an alternative idea to put forth based on your vast experience, I am all proverbial ears.”
Terrance scratched his close-cropped, dyed-blonde hair, which contrasted dramatically with his dark brown skin and all-black clothing. “You know I’ve been doing PR for clean air causes for three years, and I did policy work before changing to communications, so I think I have some idea what’s going on.”
Xander slouched against the barrier and drummed his fingers on his dungaree pant leg.
One of Terrance’s diamond stud earrings winked in the sunlight filtering through the leaves as he turned toward Xander. “I’ve learned you have to evoke emotion to get people on board. Get to their hearts as well as their minds. Comparing wetlands to the city’s kidneys is, well, a bit clinical, don’t you think? And from what I’ve heard, politicians and the public are losing interest.”
Xander couldn’t deny that last part. “So? What might you suggest?”
Terrance leaned on the barrier next to Xander. “Everyone knows clean drinking water is important, but they only get passionate about it when there’s a problem. There’s no problem here. When you’ve been doing your outreach, what parts of the story get to people?”
Xander stroked his short beard. “The turtle.” He nodded. “The bog turtle is an exceptionally cute little guy, one must admit. He’s not much bigger than the pet turtles many people have as kids.” He frowned in disapproval of that ghastly trend.
“Does his size make people want to protect him?”
“Sure, if they’re looking at him. Otherwise, the turtle is merely a concept.”
Terrance removed his heavy, black-rimmed glasses, pulled a microfiber cloth from his pocket, and wiped the lenses. “So, let’s make him more real.” He replaced his glasses and looked to the heavens. “Let’s say the turtle is a victim here. Who’s the bad guy?”
“Flammer, of course.”
“Flammer and his building. What if we juxtapose the tiny turtle and the big building somehow?”
Xander’s eyes brightened as he turned to Terrance. “We depict a bog turtle cowering in the shadow of a skyscraper!”
“Yeah! Maybe not a skyscraper since Stone Circle is only what—five stories? And if we used a skyscraper, the turtle would be a dot in comparison. But I like where you’re going with this. We put the turtle in a tall building’s shadow. That could work. We could call the campaign ‘Looking Out for the Little Guy’.”
Xander laughed.
“What?”
“My mother declared that very sentiment every time I saved a bug
or stuck up for a friend as a kid—’That’s my Xander, looking out for the little guy.’”
Months later, after that first day’s fledgling rapport grew into real friendship, Xander asked Terrance if he’d had that campaign idea all along. Terrance had laughed and admitted he discovered long ago that letting other people take credit for good ideas was an effective way to achieve your goals.
Xander grabbed another sheet of paper from the bin next to him, mashed it up into a ball, and lobbed it at the wastebasket.
A moist wave of steaming air announced Terrance’s arrival through the building’s side door, making Xander wonder anew why his friend insisted on wearing only black in the city’s pulsating summer heat. Terrance eyed the array of crumpled paper balls on the floor. “How many sheets of paper have you wasted doing that?”
“Seriously?” Xander walked to the wastebasket and grabbed a paper ball from the floor. He uncrumpled it and showed both sides to Terrance. “Scrap paper. Printed both sides. Need I say more?” He scooped up more paper balls and started winging them at Terrance. The third one hit Terrance’s glasses.
“Hey, watch it, moron.”
“Why don’t you actually try to catch them, moron?” Xander threw another one.
Terrance dropped his satchel to the floor, grabbed the next two balls out of the air, and flung one back at Xander. As Xander reached for a high lob, Terrance whipped the other one, hitting Xander in the chest.
“So, no word yet, I presume,” Terrance said.
“None. The wait is excruciating.” Xander bounced on his toes and swung his arms in the air a few times. The combined actions morphed into a series of jumping jacks.
Terrance rolled his eyes in the direction of their colleague, who was trying to ignore them. “Who gave him too much sugar this time?”
Terrance braced his hands on Xander’s shoulders until the jumping subsided. “Easy, Xan; we don’t even know if they’ll decide today.”
Xander’s shoulder muscle twitched in Terrance’s grasp. “My contact at Fish and Wildlife said it would likely be today,” Xander said between gulps of air. “It’s got to—”
“Terrance. Xander.” Sarah, the Wilderness Protection Society’s regional director, beckoned to her communications director and campaign manager from her office doorway. “Get in here now! Connelly’s on the phone.”
The two men scurried after her, landing beside her desk as she hit the speaker button on her phone to resume the call. “We’re all here now. What’s the word?” She tucked a strand of brunette hair behind her ear, staring at the phone as if she could see her U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service counterpart on the other end.
“It’s going into tomorrow’s Federal Register. The Stone Circle site is being designated a Critical Habitat for the threatened bog turtle.”
Sarah pumped her fist in the air and high-fived Terrance while Xander threw both arms up and jumped victoriously, his faded yellow T-shirt rising to show a band of tanned skin. “That’s great news, Connelly. Tell us exactly what this means for the land.”
“Well, CH designation doesn’t prohibit development, but the project would have to be cognizant of the bog turtle’s habitat. Between you and me, and I’ll deny ever telling you this—” Xander smirked at Sarah; it wasn’t like Connelly was divulging a nuclear launch code—”I don’t think he’ll be able to make the project economics work now.”
Sarah hung up.
The three colleagues all whooped at once. Sarah and Xander let loose with a quick happy dance. Terrance took a few steps and wiggled his shoulders. Xander ran shouting into the adjacent room where his colleague sat. “We won! We beat Flammer! Go, bog turtle!”
Terrance shook his head. “Do you think just once he could observe protocol and let you make the announcement?”
Sarah shrugged. “This was his baby all along.” She moved to the doorway and yelled, “Celebratory drinks after work!”
***
At half past eight, Charley locked up and slipped out of the sanctuary of the shop for the steady security of her apartment upstairs. The rain that had stuttered all day revved up into a proper summer storm, with erratic winds heaving water mercilessly against the old brick building. She wrestled the cranky wooden windows in her living room shut.
Moving through her evening regimen, she fed the cat first and checked her personal email second. The latter took no time at all because she’d generally and willfully lost touch with her childhood and college friends. Third, she set the timer on her phone for one hour, opened her favorite word game app, and lost herself in letter combinations until the timer buzzed. Fourth, she made dinner—grilled cheese on whole grain bread because it was Thursday—and ate at her beat-up coffee table while watching a show on her laptop. Number five, she cleaned up her dishes. Numbers six through eight, she got ready for bed: washing her face, brushing her teeth, and changing into a sleep shirt. Number nine, she lay down in bed with a paperback. Number ten, rather than read, she picked at the eczema on her heels until it bled.
The compulsive act didn’t deliver relief tonight. The clock had begun ticking on her long-dreaded twenty-ninth year. With effort, she stifled her mind’s desire to wander into hypotheticals of what form this year’s tragedy would take. She had little control over the outcome—she was ruled by fate, God, karma, or some other unseen force or deity. She sighed and shuttered her eyes, only to see a vivid close-up of the dead squirrel. The ghoulish image and her fear of the coming year’s misfortune weighed on her soul like a damp, moldy blanket. Peeking through a moth hole in the blanket, unrecognized by Charley, was the subtle glow on her shoulder where Xander touched her.
