Quaking Read online

I look down and peruse the Quaker shoes around me. Old, peeling running shoes. Dirty boots. Sandals with socks. They go well with Sam’s cap.

  I am still trying not to swallow, so I read an article in the newsletter I picked up in the hallway. It is more about the Peace Testimony and why war is not the answer. And there is a line from the George Fox song we sang last week. “You can’t kill the devil with a gun or a sword.” I want to show the article to Mr. Warhead. Or leave it on his desk when he is not around. Maybe if a Quaker came to school, if they do that, someone could disarm him. Or at least make him see the other side of the story.

  I jump when a woman’s voice cracks through the air. “I’m sitting here pondering our commitment to peace,” she says, “and thinking how we, as Friends, should put ourselves out there more, like at the schools, to get students—and teachers—thinking about peace.”

  Oh, my God, it is like Sam said! I must be thinking in Quaker. It must be this room. My thoughts are running around and planting themselves in people’s brains without their even thinking! Like an Immaculate Perception.

  I see the woman sit down and realize that she just finished speaking and I missed the rest of what she said. Because I am still in shock that somehow my brain waves are broadcasting in Quaker. I am not sure if this is a good thing or frightening.

  I hear the cell phone bird and look out the windows trying to find it. The sun is streaming in and I realize that it is warmer in the Meeting House today. Finally I see the bird peeking in at me. I am actually enjoying the sound the bird is making. And the fact that I can sit here undisturbed.

  I watch a man hunched over, elbows on knees, head hanging, eyes closed. And the younger version of himself next to him, maybe a college kid, in the same position. And I realize they look similar not just because of their shape but because of their faces. They must be father and son. And I wonder what it must be like to pray with your father instead of pray against him.

  When Meeting is over, a woman stands up and looks at Sam. He smiles back. She says we have decided to introduce ourselves after Meeting. I am thinking this is silly, considering it is the same people every week. How can they possibly not know each other? Even I can recognize them after only coming here a few times. I am also thinking that since I had no part in such a decision, I can just slip out the door, but Sam’s hand closes on mine and pulls me back to my chair. He stands up, still holding my hand so it is dangling in space. I look away, trying to divert people’s eyes from my conspicuous arm.

  “Good morning.” Sam smiles and looks around the room. “I’m Sam Fox.”

  “Ohhhh,” someone says, exaggerated, chuckling.“Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  Another chuckle. “You mean, like, here?”

  “No, I was thinking at the peace rallies on Thursday nights.”

  “Oh, yes, I think he’s been there . . . once or twice.”

  More friendly laughter.

  Sam gives a wry smile, then squeezes my hand and looks down at me.

  What? I say with my eyes.

  He tugs at my arm a little and his eyes answer. Aren’t you going to stand up?

  I shake my head and look away.

  He coughs. “This is Matt.”

  There is a chorus of “glad you’re with us,” “welcome,” “hello.”

  I can feel my face burning and my arm tingling.

  “Matt’s fourteen and she goes to Franklin High. She’s in the ninth grade, but she’s mostly taking classes with the juniors and seniors because she’s a very smart young lady.”

  For God’s sake, Sam, they do not need to know my entire life history!

  “She’s part of our family now.We hope she’ll be with us for a long time.” He squeezes my hand again and smiles at me and I wish he would just let go.

  There is an awkward silence and finally Chuck stands up and introduces himself. Sam sits down and loosens the grip on my hand. I let out the long breath I have been holding inside.

  As soon as the circle finishes the recital of names, I run for the front hall and am the first one out the door.

  I hear the steady clump-clump of Sam’s boots coming down the Meeting House steps behind me. He must realize that I have had my fill of socializing and it is okay to leave now because he does not call me as I head down the street toward the Subaru.

  Suddenly, I hear sharper, quicker footsteps getting louder. I turn and see a man storming up behind us. He does not look like a Quaker. He looks angry.

  “That sign is an insult!” he shouts, pointing to the peace banner on the Meeting House.

  I step behind Sam.

  “It’s not meant to offend—” Sam begins.

  “My son is over there fighting, and you idiots are back here hanging signs like this while he’s risking his life for your goddamn safety!”

  I am torn between running away to save myself and trying to pull Sam with me because he obviously does not know he should run away now.

  “I understand,” Sam is saying calmly, “and I appreciate what your son is doing, believe me.”

  I stand with my arms folded and my head pointed down. It is like saying “shut up” without moving your lips. It also keeps my hands from shaking because I do not like angry men yelling at me or anyone. I have heard that when you are part of a crowd in a play and you are supposed to be making background chatter, you say “rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb,” and it does the trick. I am wondering if saying “rhubarb” in my head will also cover up the angry man’s voice.

  Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb.

  The rhubarb does not work.

  I hear Sam’s voice clearly. “I don’t believe our safety was at risk—”

  “You’re poisoning your daughter’s mind!” the man is yelling. “Hey, girly!” The man tries to step around Sam, but Sam is too quick for him. And I am glad of Sam’s size.

  “Matt, go to the car,” Sam says quietly.

  I am too scared to look up. Or move. I feel the tornado inside me. And my whole body is shaking. All of a sudden, I realize that I am surrounded. By a wall of legs. And I almost scream. Until I see the shoes. Old running shoes. Dirty boots. Socks in sandals. These are Quaker legs. Attached to Quaker bodies who enclose me like a Quaker Cloak and shepherd me. Toward the Subaru.

  I am inside the Subaru but the Quaker Cloak still surrounds me. It parts only when Sam opens his door and joins me.

  “Everything’s okay,” he says. “We just needed to talk it out.” He looks at me. “Are you all right?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  He stops putting the key in the ignition. “What do you mean?”

  “Did no one teach you to run from bullies? Not confront them.”

  “Aw, he wasn’t a bully, Matt. Just an upset father. And I don’t blame him.” He starts tugging at his silver bracelet. “We . . . we agreed on a lot of things. I explained why my feelings . . . run so deep.”There is a catch in Sam’s voice and his face goes red. I wonder what he means but he coughs quickly and goes on. “It was a good opportunity for us to understand each other, to tolerate each other.”

  “It was also an opportunity for disaster. For God’s sake, Sam! Why not talk about peace somewhere safe, like a school, instead of talking with crazy people on the street?” I exhale loudly. “What if Jessica is right? Maybe they are targeting actual people now, not just buildings. Like that guy—Rabbi Sterns? You could be in danger.”

  “I’m not a rabbi.”

  “But you are—”What is Quaker for rabbi? Un-Minister? Chief Fox? “—the Alpha Quaker.”

  Sam shakes his head and laughs. “Alpha Quaker?” His whole stomach is shaking.

  “I am not joking!” He is so annoying. “What are you going to do if that guy comes back again?”

  “Probably the same thing I’m already doing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Hold him in the Light.”

  “Excuse me? Is that like holding his feet to the fire?”

  Sam chuckles.“No, it’s, well, it’s like pray
ing for him.” He stops smiling and clutches his bracelet. “And for his son.”

  I shake my head. “I still think you are playing with fire.” He turns and looks at me. His voice is quiet but unyielding. “Sometimes you have to face the fire, Matt.”

  I shake my head and look away. That is where I differ with the George Foxes and Tom Foxes and Sam Foxes. It is unwise and unnecessary to stick your neck out like that. Speaking out loud. In public. You will not find me in that position. Not in a million years.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Late that night I wake up because someone is playing a guitar downstairs.And singing. It cannot possibly be Sam because this man’s voice is actually in tune, and it is definitely not Jessica. Finally, I realize it must be the radio or a CD. It could not be the TV. Although they have a small one in the kitchen, it is only decorative. They never turn it on.

  I get up and creep quietly to the top of the stairs. I am not trying to spy. But the singer sounds soft and serious, especially in a dark, quiet house.

  I sit on the top step and listen for a while. The brown carpet is thin and does not provide much padding, but at least it is warmer than no carpet. I pull my nightshirt around me and lean against the stairwell wall.

  Music drifts up from the kitchen. The refrain is ripping at my gut.

  When you’re losing your heart,

  When you’re losing the fight,

  Hold on to my hand,

  And we will follow the light.

  He is saying that I am lonely and lost and I wonder how he knows. And he says to follow my heart. But I have no heart. So how do I know where to go?

  I get up to go back to bed because I cannot stand to hear him say it one more time. I stand there for a few moments, though, because the strange singer has some kind of hold over me. It is as if he is singing directly to me. I shudder, because it is a spooky thought.

  And then the singer stops. I hear a Sam sigh and the wheely stool sliding across the kitchen floor, then heavy footsteps to the living room.

  After I hear the creak of their bed, I wait a few minutes and tiptoe down to the kitchen. By the light from the computer screen, I see some CDs on the kitchen table. They are all by the same singer, John McCutcheon. I have never heard of him. Probably because he is an old guy. He must not be a total fart, however, because he does have pierced ears. Otherwise, he looks like someone’s father. But a nice one.

  I pick one up and look at the titles of the songs. My throat hurts when I read the one called “Follow the Light.”

  Others sound funny. I open up the CD and read the lyrics from some of the songs and they are hysterical. Or very true. Like “New Kid in School”—“The first day is a hundred hours long” and “Everything I do I know is wrong.”

  I notice something shiny by the computer. I put the CD lyrics down and step over to the light. It is a large bracelet and I realize it must be the one Sam wears. I pick it up. It is made partly of chain links with a large, rectangular metal piece that stretches across the middle, joining the chains. On the metal rectangle is engraved PVT. JOSEPH L. FOX. Underneath his name is a date, 7-1-72. I stare at it for a full minute before I figure out what it is.

  I drop the bracelet on the floor like it has burned me. It falls with a clatter and I scramble to pick it up, as if picking it up faster will erase the noise it made. But I knock the wheely stool, sending it crashing into the fridge and bouncing off again. When I grab it to stop it from moving, I lose my balance and stumble over it, sending both the stool and me crashing to the floor.

  “Shit!” I say, not quietly enough.

  Sam is in the doorway in red sweatpants and a blue Superman T-shirt. I imagine Jessica gave it to him.

  “Um, hi,” I say, from my spot on the floor.

  I hear Jessica’s sleepy voice. “Sam, is everything okay?”

  “Yes, honey. I’ll be there in a minute. Just getting a drink.” He bends down and reaches his arm out, to help me up, I suppose. But then he sees the bracelet on the floor and picks it up instead.

  “I was just looking at it. And I dropped it. Sorry.” I set the stool upright.

  He is staring at the bracelet, rubbing his thumb over the name and date as if trying to wipe some dirt away, even though it is shiny. Sighing, he creaks himself down on the stool, still staring at the bracelet. He looks so serious and sad, I say “sorry” again.

  His head pops up like he has heard me for the first time. “Oh. That’s okay. What are you doing on the floor?”

  “I . . . I heard that music earlier and I was looking at the CDs and—”

  “John McCutcheon. He’s my favorite artist. Quaker, too.”

  A Quaker? This is not my image of a Quaker. I stare at Sam. “Are you sure? He has pierced ears, for God’s sake.”

  Sam nods. “Yup.”

  “And he—he’s funny, for God’s sake.”

  Sam smiles. “Yup.”

  “And he—” and then I realize the Quaker connection. “And he sings antiwar songs.”

  Sam loses his smile and stares at the bracelet. “For God’s sake.”

  I look at the floor for a while, then I watch Sam, who is still staring at his bracelet.

  “Is that . . . someone related to you?”

  He nods. “My dad’s MIA bracelet. He was a medic in Vietnam. My mom wore it until she died.Then I inherited it.”

  “Is the date . . . is that the date he died?”

  “No. It’s the date he went missing in action.”

  Missing in action? What does that mean? Was he ever found? I try to remember what Jessica said about Sam losing his father but all I remember is tuning her out. I make a mental note to start listening to what Jessica says. It could be useful.

  I look at Sam, thinking to ask him more, but I stop when I see his glistening eyes. I think maybe he is going to cry. I want to tell him I am sorry but it sounds so inane. Sorry that your dad got killed or tortured halfway around the world for God knows what reason. Sorry that you lost your dad, who probably actually loved you, when you were just a little kid. Sorry you had to grow up without your dad. Sorry your whole life got screwed by having to be a grown-up before you had a chance to be a kid. Sorry.

  Now I see that Sam is looking at me. “Well, honey, I shouldn’t keep you up any longer.You have to get your sleep so you’ll be alert for school.” He tries to smile, but it looks sad. “I don’t want you blaming me when you don’t get into the college of your choice—except I hope you choose one close to home. Of course, we’ll come visit wherever it is, but it’d be nice if it weren’t too far.”

  I look down at the floor. That depends on how far you consider Canada to be.

  “In fact, I’d like it if you stayed here during college, but Jessica says that you’ll probably want to go off to college. That’s part of the college experience.”

  They have actually talked about this? I thought people only planned for their kid’s college in commercials or, at the very least, when they actually had kids. I steal a look at him to see if he is serious.

  He shrugs. “Okay, you can go wherever you want. I can tell you agree with Jessica. I should’ve known. Just not too far away, all right?”

  I feel like I am in some strange movie, only I am the stand-in actress and no one has given me the script. “I—I will think about it.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  I tell myself I will look into cheap flights to Canada. Then I tell myself to stop being so stupid. Surely, Sam and Jessica will lose interest before then.

  I look up and Sam is leaning over, extending his hand.

  Slowly, I reach and his huge, warm hand envelops mine. How can it feel so soft and so strong at the same time? He pulls me up, holding my hand and squeezing it gently, even after I am standing.

  “Good night, Matt. See you in the morning.”

  “Good night.”

  He is still holding the bracelet of death as he wobbles away, looking like an overgrown kid in Superman pajamas.

  I pick up the C
D lyrics and look at them one more time.

  When the world feels so big

  And we seem so small

  And you wonder if life

  Has any meaning left at all…

  My throat is closing and my eyes are getting like Sam’s, so I criticize the song’s meter, throw the lyrics on the table, and run.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The Dead Marine photo is still hanging up in World Civ. I cannot stand to see it. So I scribble on my desk instead. Mr. Warhead is pacing up and down my row, lingering as he turns at my desk. I can feel his heat. “It always surprises me when girls can’t see the importance of helping oppressed girls in other countries. Sure, it’s okay for you here, but what about women around the world? Think of what they have to go through. Don’t you owe them anything?”

  I grit my teeth and squirm in my seat. Of course I care what they go through. For example, I would rather they not be in the middle of a war zone. Being injured or killed.

  “Yeah, I’m doing what I can,” the Rat says. “I’m signing up.”

  Mr. Warhead is at the front of the row and he nods. “You’ll get your chance soon enough.”

  “Maybe sooner,” the Rat answers, under his breath.

  “It’s good to see that some of our young people care,” Mr. Warhead says.

  I let out my breath. Too loudly. It is not a snort, not a cough, not even a sigh, but just a slight sound. Of disgust. And it is all the Rat needs.

  He turns slowly in his seat. I sink behind the boy in front of me, but suddenly my shield ducks down to get something out of his backpack and I am exposed. Staring straight at the Rat.

  “Chicken-shit,” he breathes.

  My stomach churns. Loudly. And I cannot stop it. I think of Meeting. I imagine the Quaker Cloak around me again and I imagine that the Rat’s eyes cannot penetrate the Quaker Cloak.

  All day I manage to avoid the Rat and I think I am protected by the Quaker Cloak, even when I get on the bus. It is a stupid and dangerous mistake.

  Without warning, the Rat has my backpack in his grimy paws. I feel like the Cloak, and a part of me, have been ripped away.