And Crawling Things Lurk

She often stood there at the upper windows to contemplate the outside world as it rushed past in recent years in shiny, metal conveyances just visible through the upper tree branches…to contemplate, to ponder options, and eventually to reach a decision. Another car, this one bright red, swept past on the highway far below, and desperation gnawed at Sofia’s conscience just as hunger did in her belly. If those two young men hadn’t come by when they did, and if the one hadn’t been so large, she would have had to go out well before this. But that was weeks and weeks ago – months – way back in the middle of winter, and here it was almost into summer again. She had held off as long as she could before using the second young man, the skinny one that needed fattening up, but her sweet cakes can only do so much. Not using him right away when her hunger returned was a gamble that had only barely paid off, allowing her to last as long as she did. Although he was still alive, he had gone much too long with just the preservations of her cakes and elixir, and he had been well on his way to losing what he had gained. It had simply been too long.

Frederick would be furious with her if she did go out of the house – and in the daylight, too. Since he had taken over the task of providing for her, he always stressed that she must leave the acquisitions to him. He always said he would make sure she never ran short, that it was just too dangerous for her to go out on her own. He did take his responsibility seriously. She couldn’t imagine what might be delaying him. She hoped he was all right; she was really quite fond of him. But it had just been so long since he had come. Maybe after dark would be better.

Oh, Frederick, where are you?

Taking care that the lacy curtains just inches from her face made no tell-tale movements, she stepped back from the west windows of her attic suite and walked across to peer out the east side where she could see most of the grounds of the old estate. At ten acres, it covered a swath of land roughly six hundred-feet-wide north to south and seven hundred from the Old Redwood Highway on the west to the river on the east. The mansion perched atop a tree-shrouded knoll in the southwest corner of the property. Even before the south boundary, rough and rocky terrain discouraged any development. A similar strip of ground only slightly less mounded and rocky ran just inside the north boundary from the highway to a couple of hundred feet from the river. The northern edge of this strip had been graded down to accommodate Uncle Khristo’s warehouses that eventually stretched along the entire length of the northern property boundary. It was as though a great knife had descended to slice away the uneven ground in a straight line against which the rear of the long, north-facing building abutted on the estate side. His private entrance into the initial building was on that side and just past the end of the mounded ground, utilizing the final ten-foot mound as a windbreak and to support a small roof above the door. The public access to his shipping business was from a street coming off the highway and fronting them on the north. The rest of the town of Cedar City lay just beyond. Between the rough areas to north and south, the level ground of the estate made a barely noticeable downward slope to the riverbank, which was a nearly vertical bluff between ten to fifteen feet above water lever, depending on the tide. Along with the hilltop mansion to house his own small family plus those of her father, employed as a stern-wheeler captain for Vasov Shipping, and their sister, whose husband oversaw the care and maintenance of the mansion and grounds, Khristo had even had a private dock and boathouse built. It had made for much better and more efficient delivery of the many luxuries to furnish the mansion, from Persian rugs to pieces of fine art and crafted furniture largely imported from Europe.

The leafy treetops outside her east windows blocked less of this view than what they did to the west and north, and it was a view that brought back memories of childhood delights with Ariana, the two as young girls playing and chasing each other about Uncle Miklos’s carefully tended grounds.

With more than a little nostalgia she recalled the extensive vegetable garden, the flower garden and gazebo, and flowerbed-lined pathways winding between cherry trees, peach trees, apple trees and grand valley oaks. The trees were all that remained in evidence down there on the flatter ground, and all but the oaks were long dead. The ground between the trees had long since reverted to native grasses and weeds. And, of course, the knoll was a mass of wild vegetation. With her finger on the glass tracing the path before her eyes, she recalled the cinder-paths and boardwalks that made for a pleasant stroll to the boathouse on the riverbank or north to Uncle Khristo’s private entrance to his warehouse.

As the girls grew into adolescence with wider horizons that even included unsupervised day excursions into town, they would use Uncle Khristo’s entrance and go through the warehouse rather than along the highway where passing wagons or even a passing gust of wind could stir up clouds of dust. Of course, that was back long before they began paving roads, especially those between towns. It was a better way for her and Ariana to go when they walked into town. Especially since Uncle Khristo’s secretary would often slip them candy treats as they passed by the office. Although the lady would hold her finger to her mouth as she did so to eliciting silence lest her stern employer notice, the girls always suspected Uncle Khristo was well aware of the dinner-spoiling contraband. In fact, she was pretty sure he was the one that kept the bowl stocked, since it always had their favorite kinds. How nice it would be if she could use his door now. But, alas, it had been sealed along with all the other doors and windows when the business functions of the warehouse ceased.

Likewise, she recalled how her life had taken an abrupt turn back when those paths saw daily use. She had been so proud of the swelling of her breasts and hips, much anticipated after watching Ariana’s own development which preceded hers by a couple of years, and who always had worldly-wise advice to impart. And then, with Ariana as a model and just beginning to really look forward to life as a young lady, the continuing stages of her own unique development brought on other, wrenching changes, strange cravings that she and the family didn’t know how to satisfy. She developed difficulties eating the things she had always enjoyed. She grew weak from lack of food, but no one knew what to do about it – until one evening when she encountered the young son of one of the hired help down by the boathouse and instinct took over. It was there that Uncle Khristo had discovered her with that first catch. She could still recall the look of shock, and then horror that contorted her beloved uncle’s face when he realized what he was witnessing. Regrets, rather than shame, were all she had felt – all she ever felt – over the incident. She hadn’t planned it. In fact, she recalled, she was shocked at the time by her own actions – so strange, now, looking back on it – but she couldn’t stop herself when the instinct took her. Fortunately, it was Uncle Khristo that came upon her as she feasted. If it had been anyone else, who knows what the reaction would have been? And it was with regrets only that she recalled how, from that day, Uncle Khristo orchestrated the way the family withdrew her from open society, secreting her in the upper floors of the house where she should never again be seen by anyone not in the family.

She often spent her days visualizing the scene below. From these same upper windows, she had spent much of those early years observing the daily harvest of vegetables for the kitchen and flowers for the numerous vases placed about the house. She still had three vases right there in her attic suite, but the last flowers they had held were long since turned to dust. She had loved to watch Uncle Miklos overseeing various projects to make the grounds ever more beautiful. She could see when hired workers would sneak naps in shady spots where no one else could see them, and she would make pacts with them, if only in her own mind, that she would forever keep their secrets. She would watch her father and uncle come and go to work, never forgetting to wave back at the mansion before disappearing through their door for the day. It was never voiced, but she was sure they were waving just to her. And, no longer permitted to join them, she would watch Ariana with her suitors. She mentioned to Ariana once how she could see them when they strolled among the trees and, thinking they were out of view of anyone at the house, sneaked a kiss or two. Ariana merely giggled and made Sofia promise not to tell.

Uncle Khristo was a caring man who had always doted on his adoptive niece as his own daughter. As head of the growing family, his decision to continue to support her in whatever she required was beyond challenge. With Ariana married and moved away to raise her own brood, his sons grown into adulthood, one marrying and fathering many children of his own in a home nearby while the other met an unfortunate end without progeny, and Aunt Christina’s five children helping to fill the mansion with hectic life, her beloved uncle saw to it that she received a comprehensive education in liberal arts as well as the fineries of cultured society, even though she could never partake of it other than with just the family and only at the mansion. Her collection of books, fine leather-bound volumes of all the classics offered a lifetime of stimulating reading – a normal lifetime, anyway. From the time the old priest had christened her, she was accepted as family, and family takes care of family. It was the way.

And, always the docile one, she never resisted the family’s wisdom. She did miss the gaiety of those earlier years, though.

She let her gaze drift about the grounds below and the memories still living there while she dithered. If only the old route were still open. It would be the best way to go, if go she must. Frederick’s warnings to her of dire consequences if she were seen coming or going from the house had not been wasted. If she could go through the old warehouse, she would not be seen near the house. She must avoid being seen near the house.

And there was still a way.

Sofia’s gaze shifted to the left and settled on the nook where the easternmost mound abutted the back wall of Uncle Khristo’s warehouse and the sealed door there, but still she wavered. Maybe she should give Frederick another day or so, although, certainly not another week. But, no, even the thought of waiting even another day started the pangs of hunger again. It was time. And so, remembering the way with a nod, she smiled.

Private ways and secrets were a necessary way of life in the old country where persecution so often turned deadly. So, when Uncle Khristo had built his new warehouse, besides the normal, open ways, he included another way, a portal not apparent to the casual passerby or non-family worker. Secretly, he brought in workers from many miles away, sequestering them until the work was completed, and then transporting them back, once again, to their own far away city. Decades later, long after her beloved adoptive mother and father were gone, as well as Uncle Khristo, Aunt Katrina, Ariana and her brothers, when business failures forced the remaining family to shut down operations and seal up the building, the Vasovs had retained ownership and control of the estate and all it held.

Emerging from the old way into the shadows and gloom that was all that was left of once grand dreams, Sofia squared her shoulders against the fears of venturing forth, strode past the open door to Uncle Khristo’s old office while stealing a glance at the long empty glass, candy bowl on his secretary’s desk, and headed for the doorway to the town of Cedar Landing. No, it’s not Cedar Landing anymore, she told herself. For the last hundred years, now, it had been Cedar City. It had been a long time, but as she remembered it as an easy, if dusty, stroll.

The first things she saw were the old buildings that Uncle Khristo had built as Vasov Shipping expanded its capacity beyond the original warehouse. They were just the same, just older…much older. In fact, they seemed to be in the process of collapsing in slow motion. Then, when she passed beyond them en route to the actual town of Cedar City, ambling along the concrete sidewalk and paved streets – all unexpected wonders – to the four-lane highway that became the main street through town, nothing was the same. For one thing, the town was so much larger than what she remembered. She passed several houses before she got into downtown, and even they were different…huge, colorful and sprawling.

It had been so very long since she had been out of the mansion, and she wasn’t sure what to do. Things had changed so much over the years. Although she had watched the world outside develop many new contrivances, it was always from behind the lacy curtains and through the leafy screen that had grown all but solid over the decades. Out of the house, so much was new. So many things she had never used, never even seen. So many things she didn’t know how to use, and, in many cases, couldn’t even guess their uses. Although Frederick and his predecessors had brought her books and magazines with paintings and photographs that showed her the way the world changed over the years, it was not the same as seeing it in reality. Although it might prove to be very simple, she doubted if she could even control one of the vehicles speeding along on the highway so much faster than the horse-drawn buggies and wagons of the days of her youth, back before the change. She didn’t even try to imagine what new things might exist in the homes she walked past, and she wouldn’t even consider going into one.

Not yet.

Not in the light.

But in the light, she could meander through the town that was so much larger than when she and Ariana had walked its dirt streets and boardwalks as young girls. She marveled at the changes over the last century and a half. Constantly awestruck, she had to remind herself not to stop and gape.

A car whisked past, the closest she had ever been to one and without having to look at it through a screen of grimy glass and foliage. During winter, especially, when many of the branches outside her top windows were bare, she could see a bit more of the world beyond the trees, and she would often watch vehicles speeding along the highway into and out of town. They had always made her think of colored beads of water rolling effortlessly down the outside of a window after a rain. Frederick came in such a vehicle as much as three or four times a year, but it was always after dark, and, occupied with handling his deliveries, she never went out to look at it. Faster and faster they went as the years passed, the noise of their passage always muffled to a whisper by the glass and the distance. Now, this one whooshed by so close she could feel the movement of air from its passage. She thrilled as it went by so colorful and shiny, and she could feel the throb of its engine with its hint of limitless power. But she had never imagined the marvelous things would be accompanied by such a stench. She had no idea they emitted an exhaust and that it was so noxious. She was amazed that it was tolerated.

Whenever she walked past yet another house, she was struck by the garish variety of styles and colors, not at all like the few simple, either white or unpainted structures she remembered lining what was then but a few of these now many streets. She barely remembered how the Vasov house had begun small and simple, just that, to her as a child, it seemed to be in a constant state of expansion and construction. As the family’s wealth grew, the house grew, too, like a living thing, as just one more child of the family. Looking back over the years, it seemed, now, like the blink of an eye from being the crowded little house the men first built atop the nearly treeless hill near the road, although it didn’t seem crowded at the time, to an imposing mansion. If she closed her eyes, she could still see the great expanse of carefully tended ground, boarded walks and promenades between the mansion and the river, lit back then for festive occasions by scores of lanterns to serve frequent open-air cotillions for the town’s invited gentry. Surrounding the house on its knoll, Uncle Miklos, a skilled landscaper, had created a carefully tended botanical splendor of selected trees, shrubs and flowers, a masterful setting nestling a fine jewel to its best showing. More than once she had overheard the proud townsfolk talk about how they would take out-of-town visitors past it just to show it off, certain that it was at least as grand as any slave-tended Dixie manor of the South.

With a pleasant smile she recalled how on many an evening when she and Ariana were children and Ariana’s brothers were still striving to become young men, they would all gather in the parlor after dinner while the family talked of events, past and present. She would listen avidly to the tale of how Uncle Khristo had lost his Varna mercantile and ships to the greed of an important Ottoman. Among his tactics to force Uncle Khristo to sell was sending his soldiers to inspect the cargo of grain aboard the ship captained by her very own father preparing to sail down the coast to Constantinople, which the Turks insisted be called Istanbul. The soldiers opened every container and then refused to allow her father’s crew to re-seal them by claiming the inspection was not yet finished, until rats had spoiled it all. The Turk then threatened to send both Uncle Khristo and her father to prison for attempting to ship fouled grain to the capital. Then, after the Turk paid but a single bag of gold to Uncle for the warehouses, docks, ships, and even including the Vasov family mansion, a prize that should have demanded three score bags or more, he sent his soldiers to the Vasov home two days later to recover even that pittance – along with Uncle Khristo’s head. However, Uncle Khristo anticipated such treachery and prepared the family. While the bantering and laughing soldiers took their time to break through the front door, Uncle Khristo ushered the family to safety by way of a secret door and tunnel, a wise addition to houses of Christians living among the Turks. She, Ariana, Giorgio, and Sergio always laughed and clapped when Uncle Khristo, after each retelling, would always remark, with much animation and huffing and puffing, that the new merchant of Varna was probably still fuming at the loss of his gold as well as the most skillful of all the captains in Varna, Sofia’s father, Nikolai Vasov.

Shuffling into the downtown, she gazed up at the fluted, cast iron friezes and mock columns of the building fronts she passed. Again, she was awed by the magical technology that had transformed the relatively crude wooden structures from the small town of her memories, not realizing the style was many decades old and now discounted passé by many of the current citizenry of Cedar City. To Sofia, in their array of bright colors and sweeping designs, they were a collage of futuristic wonders. Even the paved roads and the concrete walkways beneath her feet were delights she couldn’t have imagined, and they seemed to just go on forever. She recalled walking this very way past either unpainted or white-washed, wooden storefronts with Ariana and the other siblings, cousins and childhood friends they had at the time, laughing and chasing old wagon hoops and thrown sticks along the dusty and often rutted road.

She could still recall many of the faces and most of the names over the years of the few Vasovs that hadn’t moved away in search of better fortune, withdrawing instead into the mansion in self-imposed seclusion, there to linger behind closed doors, closed windows, and closed lives with her and their terrible, closed, family secret. And there, unlike the true Vasovs, including the one from each succeeding generation selected to tend her needs, Sofia aged, but she did not die.

After her later-day care-givers moved away from Cedar City, fulfilling their duties of providing her necessities with quarterly or even semi-annual visits, as well as ensuring her isolation remained uninterrupted by keeping the property taxes current, even retaining title to the one warehouse situated on the estate, she had the entire place to herself. It was a tolerable life—just so long as nothing disrupted the system.

Now, driven home ever more forcefully by Frederick’s continuing absence, it appeared something had disrupted the system. She did so hope that Frederick was all right. There had been many caregivers over the years, most of whom she had liked, but she was truly fond of Frederick.

As she walked, the predominant acrid fumes of the street gave way to the aroma of cooking food, reminding her of smells coming from the mansion’s kitchen back when food was still prepared there. She passed a row of three large windows, amazed that each one was constructed with just a single pane of glass and as clear as air to see through. She almost reached her hand up to touch it, to be certain it was really there, but stopped when she realized she could see her reflection in it. Beyond the booths on the other side of the glass, rows of tables filled the space inside. Fewer than half the tables were taken, and the only booth occupied was at the middle window. No cloths or candelabras graced the tables, and the chairs were low backed and uncomfortable looking. Beneath harsh ceiling lights, where no candles shed their warm glow, she recognized the place from pictures that Frederick and Alexander had shown her as a restaurant. She had never seen an actual restaurant, and she couldn’t imagine why anyone would eat in one if they were all as cold and Spartan as this one seemed rather than in the warmth of a home.

She was tempted to stop to watch the people inside at their late lunches or early dinners, perhaps even to consider her own choices for later, but it might attract attention, something she must avoid. However, she did allow herself brief glances as she walked past at her slow pace, always remembering to nod and smile if they happened to notice. No one ever took notice of a friendly nod and smile on a passing face. It was just the natural look of things, she recalled. Everyone nodded and smiled when they passed each other on the street. That was just the way they were brought up, and that was the way they taught their own children. Smile, nod, be nice, be polite. Surely, manners hadn’t changed.

As she drew closer to the middle window, she took more notice of the diners there. With the floor barely above ground level she was more or less on a plane with them. If the glass hadn’t been there, she could have reached right over to the abundance of food on the other side.

The woman sitting on one side of the booth was speaking, although Sofia couldn’t hear a word through the thick glass. Fiftyish and stylish in cashmere, silk, and pearls, the diner waved her fork about, periodically stabbing in the air to make a point. Tsk, such manners.

The man across from her, his corpulent body filling most of the bench on his side of the booth, opened his mouth wide to take in a large piece of steak skewered on the tines of his fork. After chewing the meat two or three times, he opened his mouth again to receive a pile of home-fried potatoes he scooped up with his fork like a stable-boy mucking out a stall. He managed to get it in far enough to close his mouth by working the meat over into his right cheek, thus leaving the entire left cheek empty for the potatoes. Again, two or three chews and in went another scoop of potatoes. With his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk on a successful acorn run, he picked up his napkin and delicately dabbed each corner of his mouth before mopping the beads of sweat from his forehead. He dropped it back on the table beside his plate and speared another full ounce of meat. However, before he got it to his gaping mouth still half-filled with half-chewed food, he noticed Sofia on the other side of the glass.

Sofia realized she had stopped moving, so captivated by the spectacle of the man’s gluttony, and had drawn attention to herself. She nodded and smiled and walked on, leaving him glaring after her with his mouth still open and beginning to dribble bits and pieces of partially masticated food. It was wrenching to walk away from such a feast, but she soothed herself with promises of later.

The next storefront, whose exterior walls were faced with flagstones in irregular shapes between borders of unpainted, shiny metal, a concept she would never have imagined but agreed was oddly attractive, contained a display behind the glass that made her gasp and blush. But before she turned away in embarrassment she realized the people in it were merely life-like manikins wearing what she eventually grasped, from an array of photos and other items placed about, to be the latest designs of modern women’s swimwear – shockingly skimpy and revealing designs – and right out where men, and even boys, could gawk at them. Some things changed too much.

…And some people not enough.

With a sigh, she recalled her cousin Giorgio, Ariana’s oldest brother, who had taken over as head of the family when Uncle Khristo died. Giorgio never found it easy to change the way he did things. He ran the company reasonably well for twenty years, but the changes after the War Between the States were too much for him. After that terrible time, developments around San Francisco Bay expanded rail service along with bigger and better shipping facilities, sending more and more goods to more accessible landings. Sofia recalled the few times his younger cousins as well as Giorgio’s wife, and even Ariana on her occasional visits, had tried to advise him on some pending decision, but he always became angry and yelled that he was the head of the family and would decide how things would be done. Giorgio tried, but he just didn’t have the wisdom and abilities of his father. He couldn’t even turn to his little brother for input; Sergio was already dead by that time, shot down in San Francisco by an enraged, jealous husband. So, because Giorgio would not change the way the company did business, Vasov Shipping declined along with the rest of Cedar City’s waterfront. After selling off all but the original landing and warehouse near the mansion to new entrepreneurs ready to take a chance, the company shrank to a mere shadow of its former self. Successive family heads attempted various schemes to revive the business, from expanding the lines of merchandise they handled to making risky and expensive capital improvements. But what had worked well enough in its time failed in what followed. And so, finally, with the sale of the last of the barges, Vasov Shipping fell away into history among other ventures lasting little longer than their need.

Two doors past the clothing store she encountered a spectacle almost as arresting as the practically nude manikins. The display area behind the window contained a number of boxes in varying sizes, each with a large window in the front, and in each window moved a scene like an image in a mirror but totally unrelated to anything in the store or within sight out of it. The scene in each window was the same, and it changed from looking out into a street much busier than the one behind her to the faces of a man and a woman talking and laughing. The scene changed to a blur of movement, changing colors, and what looked like shimmering water, although there was no sign of the boxes leaking.

Then, with a delighted laugh and a clap of her hands, she recalled Frederick and Alexander talking about a thing they called television. They said it was like the radio/CD player with earphones they had brought for her so she could have her music without having to play the piano, which would be heard from outside—but with pictures. She hadn’t been able to visualize it at the time, but now she could see they had described it very well. She was satisfied with her radio, but it operated on batteries, which, they said, television could not do. Still, they discussed the possibility of her having one, but the problem of electricity could not be solved. Its usage would confirm to outsiders that the house was occupied. And, really, she had assured them, it wasn’t necessary. She had never had it, so she didn’t miss it. A hand pump provided her with water from a well beneath the house, and the kitchen stove used bottled gas for heating tea water. Electricity was simply not needed as long as she got fresh batteries for her radio and a new bottle of gas once a year or so. And she did enjoy her music, especially harps, violins and cellos. And, of course, she had her books. Fascinated, she watched the pictures inside the display window for several minutes, but the novelty quickly wore off. She failed to see any great attraction. Maybe if she could hear what the man and woman were saying...

“Murray...Murray...Murray....” The chanting came from behind her and across the street, and the voice was young.

Sofia turned that way and saw three young boys keeping pace with a thin, young girl who led them by thirty or forty feet. It seemed pretty clear that they were calling out to the girl, but she was ignoring them since she was certainly near enough to hear it. With the abrupt precision of a marcher making a turn without losing cadence, the girl pivoted and strode across the street right at Sofia.

“Murray! Murray!” The tone had transformed to one more whining, pleading, and sounded more like someone trying to get a recalcitrant puppy or kitten to respond.

In just seconds, the girl reached Sofia’s side of the street and stomped over the curb to the sidewalk. That’s when Sofia noticed the set to the girl’s face. With her head down and her jaw jutting forward squeezing her lips into a thin line and her freckles standing out stark against her flushed skin, she glared at the ground straight ahead like she was walking into a strong headwind but not about to divert. Sofia also realized that the girl was not even aware of her presence until that moment when they were about to collide. The girl jerked her head up to confront Sofia’s visage and slammed to a stop, got flustered, and almost backed off the curb.

Ten-year-old Muri Astor was so focused on that jerk, Tory, and his idiot friends, she almost missed the library on the other side of the street. His taunting had so distracted her that she almost marched right past it, which, of course, was the whole idea. She saw little in front of her other than the shadow-shape of the library superimposed in her mind by Tory’s grinning face and her fist busting him right in the mouth. She hadn’t even noticed the little old lady on the sidewalk until it was almost too late.

“Careful, dear, don’t fall,” said a voice so soft, Muri could hardly hear it.

The old woman just stood there, shriveled up, and with more wrinkles above the buttoned-up neck of her simple, gray, pioneer’s dress than Muri had ever seen. Her white hair was drawn back into a tight bun, and, although she wore large and very dark, wrap-around glasses only a blind person might use at her age, she certainly appeared to be peering back at Muri.

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry!” Muri got out. “I didn’t see you. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, dear. Are those boys bothering you?”

Muri glanced over her shoulder at the three boys now standing and pointing across at her, snickering at some private hilarity as they elbowed each other. “Yeah, they do that a lot.”

“Is that your name? Murray?”

“Naw, it’s Muri, short for Muriel. That was my grandmother’s name. They just call me that ’cause they know it bothers me.”

“Well, that’s not very nice of them.”

“They’re real good at not being nice.”

“I’ll tell you what, Muri, dear, my name is Sofia; now, why don’t you come home with me and I’ll fix you some nice tea. Oh, and I have some lovely sweet cakes, too. The boys won’t bother you there.”

“Uh...thanks, but I think I’d better just go on into the library. I’ve still got a bunch of stuff to do for my school project. It’s due on Friday.”

“Oh, but what if the boys follow you in there? My house isn’t far, and you’ll have plenty of time to come back and do your reading. I live all alone, and I do so love company.”

Muri considered the two options for a moment before responding, “Thanks, anyway. The librarian won’t let ’em do anything inside, and I’ve got lots to do. I’d better go, now. Bye.”

Walking up the steps to the heavy, double doors, Muri found herself taking a deep breath of air – fresh air. She hadn’t been so aware of it while standing next to the old woman, but she stunk. She smelled sort of like the back of Muri’s grandmother’s basement, back where the light never got to and where mice and bugs and spiders and crawly things waited to jump out at her when she explored. She supposed it must be something that just happens when a person gets old. She glanced back from the open library door at the old woman still standing there. Maybe she could go home with the poor dear for a little while. After all, it was still a whole week before the project was due, and she was probably lonely. Of course, Muri knew all about bewaring of strangers, but Sofia could hardly be dangerous. After all, from the glasses she had on, she was probably blind or close to it. But the teacher was going to call for the reports alphabetically, so on Friday morning she’d be second to stand at the front of the room for everyone to snicker at. Thoughts of facing the teacher and the class with a nice picture layout but just sketchy information to explain it all drove her on through the doors.

The boys across the street had gone on up the sidewalk. They arrived at the corner just as two men standing there walked across and walked across with them, the traffic on the four lanes of the cross street having stopped. Sofia decided to follow them. It was early, yet, but it was always possible an opportunity would present itself to take one of them. Taking three together would be tricky, and she wanted to avoid attracting attention.

She walked on up the sidewalk to the corner, still on her side of the street, stepped off the curb, and immediately the air about her filled with a loud screeching of tires and brakes and an even louder horn. She spun toward the din and faced the massive grill of a huge truck coming to rest within arm’s reach. She looked up at the windshield barely visible over the top of the grill at the driver, a large, heavy-set man with his eyes wide and his mouth gaping. Slowly, he sagged forward until his head rested against the steering wheel. Sofia turned and stepped back up the curb. Turning back toward the library, she walked away as fast as she dared; running would just attract more attention. At the second corner, she turned up a side street toward what seemed to be a residential area. With her lack of knowledge into the workings of the modern world, the busy downtown area was probably not the best place for her to browse

It seemed at least one huge tree stood before every house, and each house of a variety of style and age, most of which seemed huge and futuristic. A stately sycamore graced the front lawn of a small Victorian a hundred years old next to a two-year-old rambling ranch faced with brickwork. A mountainous weeping willow shaded the yard of a white painted tradesman with its large, shaded porch. Next was a similar but green tradesman, then a beige, stuccoed Spanish-mission style. Oaks and elms, redwoods, firs, and pines stood sentry over yards tended with care, reminding her of Uncle Miklos. The neighborhood that had not even existed when she last came to town had grown over decades to each resident’s taste and budget, and whatever the neighbors and city hall would tolerate.

As Sofia strolled down shaded streets, she noted children playing in many of the yards. Adults and older children pursued varied chores, mowing and raking lawns, washing cars in driveways, gabbing across low hedges and picket fences around front yards lined with flowerbeds. It wasn’t as busy as downtown, but for her purposes, it was still too busy.

She kept walking and noting driveways, detached garages and sheds, large, mature hedges and shrubs shielding windows – and streetlights. She was familiar with electric lights on poles and the harsh light they put out. From the west room at the top of her house, even in the summer she could still see through the top branches of the trees to the small strip mall across the highway. Oftentimes she would watch from there as people went in and out, even at night with lights on poles spewing unnatural illumination across the parking lot. At night, also, she could see how the night sky to the north glowed from what must be a mass of illumination from the ground, but the trees completely blocked her view in that direction. She knew the town was there and often speculated on what might be lighting up the sky like the lanterns above the mansion’s boardwalks in years past. But this was every night. She often fantasized how the folks in town would have galas every night. But the sky remained lit up until dawn—every night. How grand it must be to live in such a place. But, now she could see. It was simply like the parking lot across the highway from her windows with its pole lights that never went out…although the lights didn’t seem to be on at the time. How many men must it require to go about the town every night to turn them all on, and then to turn them off again in the morning? Or, would they leave them on day and night? She supposed there was no reason not to.

She continued to the next corner, turned down the cross street, then, at mid-block, into the alley. The first things she looked for, and was pleased to not see, were lights on poles. It didn’t take her long, then, to find a hole to slip into, a niche where a fence overgrown by honey suckle hanging to the ground abutted the paint-flaking, alley wall of an old carriage shed. She stooped low to duck beneath the overhanging foliage, turned to face outward and squatted against the base of the fence with her knees drawn up beneath her tucked chin. She drew her hands close, clasping them just below the neck of her dress and ceased all movement. Like a shapeless, colorless construction that had been there as long as the shed, she merged with deepening shadows.

She waited...

The cries and squeals of laughing children and barking dogs still eager for play eventually faded, replaced by soft bangs and tinkles of pots, pans, and dishes as evening meals were prepared and consumed. Radios and other entertainments she could not identify took up their portion of the neighborhood symphony, and the evening progressed. Shadows grew long with the setting sun. The azure sky progressed to indigo, then moonless black decorated by a thousand sparkles. Sounds of activity faded one by one, giving the night back, once again, to silence.

...and, she waited.