113: Speech

School was quiet. Even the twins seemed to turn and go a different direction when any of us were near. I didn't like the idea that people were afraid of us, but Geoff was openly hanging out with Kevin and Leonard and no one was hassling any of them. I noted that most of the younger cousins were wearing their belts subtly integrated into their daily wear. A couple of the girls had tied them with four-in-hand knots around their necks. They were pulled through the belt loops of jeans and tied as a jacket closure. I had a feeling belts would be standard wear among our cousins in school next year. I needed to talk to Whitney about getting them all some basic training. I'd talk to Coach about it, too.

My afternoons were mostly spent with Rhonda, reviewing things for her final exams. Ms. Hammer was kindly spacing them out so she wouldn't have everything in the last week of school. I took her into school twice a week to take a test in the back of one of Ms. Hammer's classes. The results of a test were always ready by the end of her next test. She was passing all her classes and doing well. I was proud of her.

"Let's go for a ride this afternoon," I suggested on Thursday. Friday, I'd be gone all day to the State Speech Contest. It had been north of Indy last year but this year we'd be competing at IU in Bloomington. That was pretty cool. I thought maybe I could drive a few of my hearthmates with me and we could spend the weekend camped out at the new house. Anna had closed on it the previous Monday and we could actually start work. Of course, some of us were going to have to allow study time because all our exams were the next week. I only had three, but most seniors had at least six. Rhonda had three more.

"Really? Is it okay?" Rhonda asked.

"When has it ever not been okay, sweetie?"

"Well, I was supposed to be studying and I felt guilty going out to be with the horses."

I held out my hand and she took it as we walked out to the barn. It was a spectacular day with clear blue skies and about 70 degrees. It felt good to have our boots on.

"You don't ever have to feel guilty about spending time with the horses," I said. "In fact, I'm making a new rule. Brian's Unwritten Rule Number 67-A."

"Are there that many?"

"I don't know. I've never written them down to count."

"So what's the rule? I'm pretty sure I should write this one down."

"No one should ever feel guilty about spending time with horses," I said. "We're going to take these kids to the farm with us."

"The ranch," Rhonda corrected me.

"Huh?"

"Rose said it will be called El Rancho del Corazón."

"Well, Rose would know, wouldn't she?" We both laughed. "Anyway, with these three kids going to Bloomington with us, we need to make sure they are always taken care of. We won't be able to leave it up to whoever happens to remember. Like the day when we all went to Bloomington over spring break. Dad took care of them after we'd all left and then let me know in no uncertain terms that it wasn't his job."

"Oh no! My poor Gypsy." Rhonda rushed into the stall and hugged the white horse. She nickered softly. She was spending a lot of time in the barn lately, even when Princess and Jingo were outside munching the fresh spring grass. I stepped out and whistled the other two horses into the barn.

"We're going to need a horse manager. Not necessarily to do all the work, but to keep track of who is on duty and to make sure it is done," I said.

"Are you implying that being your television producer might not be job enough for me?" Rhonda asked. I could hear a lightness in her tone that I craved.

"No such thing! I was going to ask you what you thought about who would be best to handle it. Sam, Jennifer, Courtney, and I all love the horses and I think Liz has developed a real liking for them, even though she hasn't had as much experience," I said. "This is the kind of thing that I need another opinion on before I go off and just do it all myself."

"We're going to need more horses," she said as if it were the logical answer.

"Um ... we're still trying to figure out how to take care of these, I think."

"Oh, we don't need more horses this summer, but the people you named are those who have spent a lot of time at your house and around the horses. Rose and Whitney and Sora are going to be living a hundred feet from these 'kids, ' as you call them. So will Doug, Doreen, Rachel, Carl, Louise, and Brenda. Sure, not all of them are going to become avid riders any more than we will all become martial artists. But if we have a trail for riding around our property that they all helped groom and we decide to go out for a Saturday afternoon ride, we'd have to take turns or ride double. People are going to want to be involved with the horses if they are near."

"And as a result, there are going to be more people who will be able to care for them, too," I surmised.

"Yeah. If you'd like my help in organizing horse-care, I'm willing. In fact, more than willing. Taking care of horses isn't work like what I'm going to be doing producing your show," she said. "Brian, Gypsy loves me. She doesn't know what a terrible person I am. Even though I tell her and cry in her mane she doesn't even care. I know you say the same thing, but when I doubt ... when I can't stand myself a moment longer ... I trust Gypsy to love me."

"I love you, Rhonda," I whispered.

"I know, Brian. I believe you. I love you, too. I don't know why it is so much easier to believe in Gypsy's love than a person's. Any person. I would give my tears, rip out my hair, lay open my chest and rip out my heart if I could just be a real person again. If I could just love and be loved without questioning."

I dropped the brush in Jingo's stall and leaned against the big horse. Those words. It could be that she just adapted them from reading the poem I was going to recite in competition tomorrow.

Or maybe it was Rhonda who wrote it.

Cassie, Josh, Jen, Court, and Sam rode with me to Bloomington in the morning. Rhonda was waiting for her sister to arrive and they would come down with Mary, Rose, and Whitney. Liz and Nicki had already declared it a motorcycle day. Elaine was already out of school and was starting a summer session on Tuesday after Memorial Day. They'd be in an intensive rehearsal and production period for the month of June with a dinner theater performance of The Fantasticks the weekend of the 29th. She was planning to meet us in Bloomington and come to the competition. She'd been a champion at dramatic interpretation when she was at Triton. Most of the clan and part of the tribe would be at the farm ... ranch ... this weekend.

I hadn't planned to stay through the whole competition, but Cassie was competing in debate and that would take all day. We were on the road plenty early and got to Bloomington at the same time as the bus with the rest of our team. I went for a walk to practice my poetry recitation a few times. Sam immediately grabbed my hand and walked with me, not saying anything but just walking with me. We eventually sat and I practiced aloud.

My interpretation was completely different than what I had rehearsed with Ms. Streeter. I could feel what was going on in the poem. When I finished my recitation, Sam was openly weeping. I guess I was, too.

"Brian Frost," the lead judge called me to the podium. I took my papers with me to the podium, then ignored them.

"Fair Trade, by Nat Hart," I said softly.

"Speak up, please," a judge said. "There is a microphone if you desire it." I nodded and cleared my throat. Then started over. Before I was through the first stanza, I was out from behind the podium and looking individually into the eyes of each judge in turn as I spoke.

All my money,
My clothes, my home, my car,
My jewelry and precious keepsakes.
My wealth.
Take it all.
Take it all and let me have one night of joy—
One night to forget my sorrow.

My sweat,
My callouses, blisters, and stiffened joints,
My cuts and scrapes and bruises.
My blood.
Take it!
Take it all and let me feel free and hopeful—
One day of glimmering light in this darkness.

My teeth.
What have I to chew?
My eyes. My ears. My tongue.
The nails from my fingers.
Take it all.
Take it all and give me one moment of love—
One second to know that I am human.

My hands.
Tear the sinews of my joints.
My feet. My head. My heart.
My life.
Take it.
Take it all and give me peace—
One blink of silence in my mind.

My mind.
What use have I for thoughts?
My tears. My sorrow. My despair.
My soul.
Take it all.
Take it all and give me death—
One single eternity filled with my regret.

There was a little stirring among the competitors and audience when I'd finished. I let them settle before I started on the second piece. I'd learned something about cadence and the rapidity of words from my previous competitions and the pace of the second poem was a stark contrast to the simple elongated syllables of the first poem. I fired out the words like a machine-gun pointed accusingly at every member of the audience. In fact, I couldn't stay in one place. The podium was on the same level as the judges and the chairs and I walked right out into the audience as I spit the words out at them.

Execution, by Nat Hart

You dare say you love me,
You sanctimonious charlatan spouting God's holy words
Turned to daggers by your tongue
To cut and pierce the sacrificial lamb
Lying on the altar before you?

Hallelujah to the messenger—
The message lying forgotten on the floor
Where the feet of the faithful
Grind the words of the prophet to dust
And leave the blood of the innocent in their path.

Praise the almighty judge, jury, and executioner
Dispatching the criminal with too little pain—
Must be humane—
When she deserves stoning—
Dismemberment by the angry mob.

Your words say love
But your eyes say burn the witch at the stake.
Your hands hold the candle—
Not a vigil but tinder
To light the fagots beneath her feet.

And you pray for God to have mercy on her soul
While you delight in the smell of her flesh
Roasting and charring in the inferno
Thinking thoughts of eternal damnation
And torment for the wicked.

You have nothing on me.
You have no word that can condemn me
More than I condemn myself.
You have no punishment that I would not willingly
Inflict upon my own body and laugh.

Your holy words, your holy vows,
Your holy water and holier than thous
Are wasted where the condemned
Is filled with such self-loathing
That your punishment is nothing to compare.

And yet I suffer not the judgment you declare
As much as the fact that you dare judge me
And find me wanting by your scales of blind justice—
The balance in one hand measuring the crime,
The sword in the other rejoicing in execution.

My head on the block, yet you hesitate,
For letting the blade fall will end my misery
And leave you with yours.
Who then will you turn on
To assuage your guilt for crimes unspoken?

Damn you to hell and damn me to heaven;
I will not submit.
I will not surrender my holy pain
For your righteous revenge.
And so we suffer—together.

Usually, there is a smattering of polite applause at the end of a recitation. Sometimes, if people really like a performance even the other competitors will join in a solid ovation. All I got was silence and a few sniffles.

And a lot of tears.

"It was her, wasn't it?" Sam asked as she hugged me after the competition. "I could hear her speaking through you. I could hear her voice crying out to us. Oh Brian, I love her so much. What can I do?"

"What we've been doing, love. Just love her and hold her. She's coming back."

"That was not the interpretation you practiced with me, Brian," Ms. Streeter said when she caught up to us. "It was heartfelt, but I don't think you won the competition this year. Judges and audience members don't like to be attacked and called sanctimonious charlatans even if it is what the poem calls for."

"I hope you weren't counting on a trophy," I laughed. "It doesn't make a difference to me. The first time I competed you told me why you let me read the poems I did. The same still holds. She deserved to be heard."

"So you figured out the mystery."

"If not, I found a source of that kind of pain. All I could do was let it flow through me."

"You did a good job, Brian. I don't care whether you won or not, either."

I got third. Cassie's debate team dominated the forensics tournament again. There was a young actress who reminded me a lot of Elaine who won the Dramatic Reading event. As a team, we got second in the overall competition.

Cassie and Josh joined us after the awards and we headed for the ranch.

"Houston, we have a problem," Jen said as we approached the ranch. There were flashing red lights near the house and as we approached, we could see a sheriff's car. The rest of our casa were sitting on the ground in front of a deputy while he talked into the mike that was stretched from the front of his car. He saw us pull in and said something quickly into the mike then tossed it into the car and turned to face us. I turned the car so we were facing away from him and pulled my license out of my pocket.

"Jen, bring the folder. Everybody else stay in the car until we signal it's okay. I'll whistle but don't make any fast moves." I opened my door and held my license up so he could see it as I got out of the car on the driver's side and Jen did the same on the passenger side. Sam sat in the middle front seat with Cassie, Josh, and Courtney in back. They all looked terrified. The deputy had his hand on his sidearm, but hadn't moved to draw it. I'd turned the car so that we were fully visible when we opened the doors and he could see our hands.

"Who are you? You'd best get back in your car and leave before the rest of the deputies arrive."

"We're the tenants, sir. May we approach? We have I.D. and a copy of our lease. You are holding our friends," I said.

"Come here slowly and keep your hands where I can see them."

Jen and I approached with our hands held out in front of us. He kept his back to his car and stood where he could see both of us and the girls sitting on the ground. He took my license and the folder and motioned us to join the others.

"How many still in the car?"

"Four."

"Call them over." I whistled. Sam got out first so she was visible and stepped away from the car before they opened the back doors. Then she was joined by Courtney. Josh and Cassie got out on the other side. "You kids are getting too clever for your own good." He tossed my license and the folder into the car without looking at them and motioned the others to join us on the ground.

"What's going on?" Jen asked. "My mother owns this ranch and we've leased it from her."

"Likely story," he said. "I've seen more fake I.D. and paperwork in my career than you will ever manage to generate. This time I'm running the whole lot of you in and you can find out what jail looks like. You'll be spending a lot of time there."

"What's the charge, officer?" Rose asked.

"Trespassing and creating a nuisance."

"The only one who doesn't actually belong here is you, sir," Jen spoke up. "Did someone file a complaint?"

"I can see a college pot party forming without needing a complaint. I've chased enough kids off this property in the past year that you should have wised up by now. This time we're pressing charges."

Two more county cars came tearing into the drive with lights flashing. Three deputies jumped out and pulled their sidearms. I slapped my hands behind my head and everyone followed suit. If I'd been on my feet I'd have sprawled on the ground, but moving like that would look like an escape from where we were sitting.

"What's this?" our deputy asked as he watched us. He hadn't looked back to see the drawn guns.

"Your backup has drawn their arms on unarmed teenagers, legally residing on their property. We have nothing more to say until our lawyers are with us," I said quickly. Rose's dad had put us all through this drill after Denise was killed. The deputy glanced at his backup. He was getting nervous.

"Put your guns away," he snapped. "No one here is a threat."

"What the hell is going on, David?" the officer who arrived alone asked. There was something different about him.

"I caught these kids setting up a tent here on the Wilkerson place, Sheriff," our deputy said. "While I was calling in the status, six more arrived. There's probably more on the way."

"What are you kids doing here?" the Sheriff asked. I nodded toward Jen.

"My mother purchased and closed on this property last Monday," Jen said. "She leased it to us so we would all have a place to stay when we come here to college next year. We're here to start getting the place in shape this weekend and to talk to a couple of contractors."

"Next year? You claim to be high school kids?" the sheriff asked. "What school?"

"St. Joe Valley in Mishawaka."

"You have any proof?"

"We gave the deputy Brian's license and our lease. He wasn't interested in looking at it."

"David?"

"You know these kids are getting smarter. Why should I waste time looking at papers? They could pull anything while I was distracted."

"And you are getting dumber. Where is that lease and driver's license?" David turned and grabbed the two items from the seat of his car. "Why is this the only I.D. among all these ... what are there? Fifteen of you?" The sheriff could count. He looked at my license. "Brian Frost?"