Behind Blue Eyes
by Jeff McLaughlin
Early on a Saturday morning in April, Dr. Woodrow "Carl" Carleton placed a hand-painted sign in his front yard at 614 Clermont Street. It read "Free Kittens" in big multicolored letters on a piece of two foot square plywood. Later that same morning, Carl embarked on a long-overdue painting project on the upper porch of his two-story house.
At about 11:30 a.m., a young woman pushed her way through the wall of arborvitae dividing Carl's front yard from the back. Carl spied her through the vertical slats of the porch railing and stood as she approached from below. Smiling at her, Carl placed his paint brush down and maneuvered to the edge of the porch, just behind the railing. There were flecks and splotches of green paint on his orange t-shirt, in his long brown (and greying) hair, and on the tie-died trucker cap that covered it, as well as along his tanned arms. One could easily assume – from his appearance – that he was a hired painter. Carl was, in fact, a 61 year old college professor with a Ph. D. in Educational Psychology. This usually surprised people, given his still youthful manner and unassuming (i. e., down-to-earth, everyday "normal guy") demeanor.
The woman spoke first. "I'm here about the sign - the cats," she called up to him, left hand on her hip, the other shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. "Are they still available?”
Carl had noticed this young woman before, as she frequently sauntered by his house, presumably on her way to and from work. Straight, carefully brushed coffee-brown hair fell across her shoulders. On some days, it was tied in a ponytail that bobbed back and forth between her shoulder blades. Carl had also noticed a subtle but persistent smile, suggesting – as she walked along – some private amusement enjoyed by her alone. She never appeared to be in a rush, her walk was more like floating, and her upper body flowed gracefully above the long legs that carried her over the sidewalk.
“Yes. I just put the sign out there this morning. Want to see them?"
"Please," she replied, smiling, as she shifted a large tan canvas bag from one shoulder to the other.
"I'll be right down." He turned and left the balcony through the single doorway, leading through the bedroom, then to a stairway.
Beneath Carl's balcony, there was another porch, the same size and style as the one above, also with a single screened door, leading to the kitchen. A few moments later, he reappeared there, kicking open the screen door and stepping onto the porch, with an indeterminate number of kittens piled in his arms. Phaedra, the mother cat, large with long blonde and white fur, slipped out just before the door slammed.
"Well, here they are." He stepped off the porch to pour the armful of fluff into the grass. The mass quickly fragmented into four separate entities, bolting and stumbling in different directions. One of them was pure blonde (with the longest hair of the bunch), one was gray, and the other two displayed different calico patterns of gray, white, and blonde. Phaedra sat on the edge of the porch, maintaining a careful, but relaxed, watch over her offspring.
"Oh, they're all so cute." She placed her shoulder bag on the grass and spent the next few minutes scrambling around the yard, trying to keep all of the kittens within her control at once. "I'll take this one," she finally said, reaching down to grasp the blonde kitten. "Is it a boy or a girl?”
"That one's a boy. He's cute, all right.”
As she held and caressed her new pet, there was an awkward silence. Finally, she spoke. "My name is Lauralee Majestic, by the way. I live up the block."
"And I'm Carl. Carl Carleton. Nice to meet you. You're in that corner house, aren't you, by the alleyway?" Carl had, on a number of occasions, seen Lauralee enter and leave the corner house, less than a block away. Carl had also seen two cats tied in Lauralee’s side yard, a big furry white one and a smaller, short-haired calico, each tethered to a thin rope about six feet long. He wondered why someone would tie cats like that. It seemed unnecessary as well as unkind.
"Yes," Lauralee said, dragging the syllable out, as if wary but also pleased that he knew something about her, that he had noticed her before. "I live with my parents," she continued, as if apologizing for this fact.
Lauralee continued, "So, how long have you lived in Bethel?"
"About six years. I work at the college … the Penn State branch campus."
"Do you teach?"
"Yes. Psychology. Educational Psychology"
"Oh," she responded, as if impressed. Then, with a teasing sideways glance, she said, "I guess I'd better watch what I say. You might try to figure me out.”
Carl laughed. "Yeah, right. Actually, I'm a psychologist, not a psychic.”
"Oh, I see," said Lauralee, slowly and with a sly smile.
Then Carl asked, "Do you work here in town?"
"I work up at Gerber," Lauralee said, pointing in the direction of the baby-food factory, located about three blocks away. When she lifted her arm to point, she almost dropped the kitten, catching it by the hind legs. "Oops, sorry baby." She pulled the cat to her face and planted a long noisy kiss on the side of its body.
"Have you worked there long?"
"About two years, ever since I graduated.”
"From high school?"
"No, from the community college."
"Oh, really? What was your major?"
"Computer Information Systems, CIS they call it, but I haven't been able to find a job in my field yet.” During this conversation, images of his kitten tied to a leash, despondent and miserable, continued to intrude upon Carl's concentration.
Lauralee continued, "So, do you live here by yourself?”
"Yes, just me," Carl said. "Seems like a big house for one person, but I like it. It's a fixer-upper, as they say. I spend a lot of time working on it."
"Well, it looks like you've done lots of work already. Looks nice." Her eyes moved from the newly installed rain spouts to the repaired and freshly painted green wooden shutters.
"Thanks."
"Well, I'd better be going. This little scamper is getting restless. Thanks and nice meeting you, Carl."
"You too, Lauralee. Stop by sometime and let me know how he's doing."
"Okay, I will," Lauralee said as she turned to leave. Then, she turned back to ask, "By the way, is it 'Mister' or 'Doctor' Carleton?"
"Well, it's 'Doctor', actually, but just call me Carl, okay?"
"Okay. Bye. Say bye-bye, kitty." Lauralee smiled at Carl as she slid sideways back through the arborvitae.
"Oh, wait," he called after her. "Don't forget your bag." As he grasped one of the two canvas straps, a magazine almost fell from the bag. It had a photo of a woman holding a large rifle on the cover and was entitled RECOIL. As he handed the bag to Lauralee, Carl also noticed, among the contents, a paperback book and a pack of Virginia Slims cigarettes.
"Thanks," said Lauralee, hoisting the bag to one shoulder as she balanced the kitten on the opposite arm. Once again, she disappeared through the shrubs.
*************************************************************
Three days later, early on a Tuesday evening, Carl was walking home from McNaulty's Hardware, where he had purchased a couple of new paint rollers and some turpentine to finish the porch job. As he entered the alleyway, at Lauralee's corner, he moved aside to make room for a Ford Taurus station wagon that had just pulled from the driveway. Lauralee's father was driving and her mother was in the passenger's seat. They waved as they passed and drove off. Carl waved back, then noticed Lauralee in the yard, on her knees, facing away from him, playing with her newly-adopted companion. The kitten was pawing and jumping at a short length of yarn that Lauralee dangled above him. The other two cats sat at a short distance, their ropes winding in a loose trail from each of their necks to the common metal stake driven into the ground nearby.
"Hi, there," said Carl, as Lauralee turned at the sound of his footsteps on the stones.
"Oh, hi," she responded, draping the yarn over the kitten's head and standing to face Carl.
"How's the kitten?"
"Fine. I named him Cassidy."
"Nice name."
"Did you give the other ones away yet?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact. I thought I'd have more trouble finding homes for them, but I was lucky."
"That's good."
"So, how is Cassidy getting along with the other two?"
"They'll get along. By the way, this is Scruffy," she said, indicating the hairy white one, "and this is Sasha." She scratched the head of the smaller calico.
"Do you keep them out here all of the time?" Carl asked.
"Yes, my mother doesn't want them to run away and get lost. For their own safety, she says."
"Cat's usually stick pretty close to home, don't they?"
"I don't know," said Lauralee. "But as long as I live here, I guess I just follow their rules. My parents. You know? Anyway, come on upstairs, I'll show you where Cassidy sleeps."
"Oh. Okay," said Carl, hesitating at her willingness to admit a near-stranger into her bedroom, especially since her parents had just driven away.
Lauralee scooped up Cassidy in one arm, hopped onto the porch, and held the screen door for him. After passing through the kitchen, he followed her down a narrow hallway that led, eventually, to the living room. The left wall of the hallway was interrupted by a stairwell, into which they turned, climbing to the second floor, which contained three rooms, one of which was Lauralee's bedroom.
Entering the room, Carl's attention was first drawn to the dozens of stuffed animals spread out across the bed, shelf, night stand, and floor. There were bears, lions, dogs, cats, and snakes, among others. There was a deliberate sort of randomness in the way the creatures were leaned or draped in almost every available space throughout the bedroom.
"Oh, yeah, I have a little fetish," Lauralee said.
"Wow, quite a gathering you've got here."
"I know. I can't help it. It just keeps growing and growing. Anyway, here's where Cassidy sleeps." She indicated a small cardboard box, lined with an old beach towel, tucked just inside the clothes closet. A variety of kitty toys were strewn in the immediate area around the box. A blue plastic food dish was situated nearby, along with a pile of open newspapers. "He'll just sleep here until he can stay outside with the others.”
"Very nice. So, how does he get along with all of these guys?" said Carl, waving his hand in a wide arc encompassing the menagerie of stuffed wildlife.
In mock baby-talk, she responded, "Just fine and dandy," as she massaged Cassidy's small neck. Carl stepped to the night stand, his eyes passing over the variety of reading material displayed there, including Cosmopolitan magazine, a paperback book titled Bushcraft 101: A Field Guide for Wilderness Survival, and RECOIL, the magazine he had previously seen in her canvas bag. Carl reached, almost picking up the magazine, then withdrew his hand, feeling that he would be prying inappropriately. He did notice that the magazine was subtitled Gun Lifestyle, that the handgun pictured on the cover was labeled “Remington R51 9mm,” and that the magazine contained an article called "DIY Smoke Grenades.”
Lauralee placed Cassidy in his box and then sat on the bed with a sigh, gazing around the four walls of her room. "I hate this place," she said, as if speaking to herself.
"Pardon me?" As Carl glanced in her direction, he saw the poster on the wall above her bed. In huge red letters were the words, KARL MARX, HERO OF THE LEFT, NEVER RAN A COMPANY OR HELD A REAL JOB superimposed over a rather demonic-looking photo of Marx himself. On another wall, a poster displayed a photo that looked like rural Colorado or Nevada, with these words: ONLY THE STRONG WILL REMAIN, THE WEAK WILL BE CONSUMED BY FIRE.
"I'm twenty-six years old and I still live at home and my parents still treat me like a child. I need to move on. I would if I could afford to."
"Move on to what?" As he spoke, Carl's eyes passed over the rest of the ONLY THE STRONG poster, which consisted of an itemized list of suggestions (presumably to remain a member of the first – strong – group):
* Get – and stay – in physical shape.
* Procure weapons.
* Stockpile cash.
* Stock up on food.
* Acquire grid-down supplies (for when the power grid goes down).
"I don't know. Get out of this town, for one thing. I mean, it's so strange to be grown and still living with your parents. Know what I mean?"
"Yes, I think so." said Carl.
"It's like, if I was living far away, or even across town, they wouldn't give a second thought to what I eat, where I go, how late I stay out, who my friends are. But just being under the same roof, it changes everything. Like I said, they treat me like a child. They even try to tell me what to think. We argue all the time."
"What do you argue about?"
"All kinds of stuff. Life, politics, you name it. I think they're worried that I'll go off the deep end or something. They're so narrow-minded. They can't accept that I have my own ideas and beliefs. But I guess everyone says that about their own parents."
"I guess that's true," said Carl.
"You know, my biggest fear is that I'm going to be stuck here for the rest of my life. And, even worse, that I might end up liking it. Like half the people I work with.”
"So, what is it that ..." Carl began, feeling awkward about asking. "I mean, what are your ideas, your political beliefs? What is it that your parents worry about?"
"Well, mostly we argue about the Prepper movement, what some people call the Survivalists, but I don't use that term. It's got a negative connotation. Anyway, I'm pretty interested in all that, because I think our country is really going down the tubes and nobody's doing anything about it. Except these people who are setting up their own groups and actually trying to ..."
"What kinds of groups?"
"This is where I get into trouble with my parents, especially my dad. When I say 'private militias,' all he can think of is a bunch of gun-crazy idiots running around in the woods and stockpiling machine guns for some imaginary war. But that's not it at all. These are caring and dedicated Americans, who are smart, who have ideas that can help this country, if we just give them a chance. It's all about freedom and self-determination. That's all it is. Who could be against that?”
Carl was impressed with Lauralee's confidence in her own views but disturbed by the content. There was also something in her words that suggested she was reciting some standard party line that she had heard somewhere. Already assuming a defensive posture, she was engaged in a debate that Carl had not yet entered. Nor was he inclined to offer his own liberal, pro-gun-control counterpoint. Carl had the feeling that Lauralee's views were rather static, and also fragile, not yet fully formed. He decided to avoid a potential conflict with his new acquaintance, even though he loathed the narrow-minded shallowness of the right-wing types she was parroting.
Realizing that Carl was not going to respond to her rhetorical question, Lauralee continued, "I just want to do some good in the world. You know, something worthwhile. Our country is really going to the dogs. I mean, look at the government!" She pointed to the ONLY THE STRONG poster above her bed. "They want to strip away our freedoms. And so many of them – especially Democrats – promote world government. Socialism. The FBI, the CIA. They're all in on it. And what am I doing? Nothing!" Lauralee gestured broadly as she spoke. "I was a top student in high school, I went to college, I have computer skills, and what am I doing? Inspecting baby food jars all day!" She stood up suddenly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to lay all of that on you."
"That's alright. At least you're searching. Give it some time. Things will work out."
"I sure hope so."
Before leaving the room, Carl peered out through the single window, which provided a view of the side yard and the two sleeping cats tethered there. Lauralee crossed the room to stand behind him. "I can always see the cats from here. Every morning, the first thing I do is talk to them from the window." Then, in the same baby voice she used with Cassidy, she called out, "Hi, Scruffy-kins. Hi, Sasha-sweety!" The two cats turned their heads slightly in her direction, then resumed their postures of half-conscious apathy.
*************************************************************
Over the next few days, Carl's concern about Cassidy the Cat became almost obsessive. He couldn't stand to imagine Cassidy tied in the Majestic family’s yard. Finally, it seemed as if the only solution – the only route to Carl’s peace of mind – was to take the cat back.
It was on a Thursday evening, at about 6:30 p.m., almost two weeks after Lauralee adopted the cat, that Carl knocked on her back door. Scruffy and Sasha were, by this time, tolerating Cassidy, who had taken his own place at the end of a length of rope. Mrs. Majestic, Lauralee's mother, was drying her hands with a dish towel when she answered the door.
"Yes?" she said, drawing the word out slightly and smiling at the same time.
"Uh, yes, hello. I'm from down the street. You have one of my cats. I'm the one that had the sign out and Lauralee picked him up." He was fumbling for words, betraying his nervousness.
"Yes." she said.
"Well, you see, I really don't feel right about having him tied out, like you have your other cats.” Mrs. Majestic looked toward the yard, then back at Carl, waiting silently for him to continue. Lauralee had appeared by now and stood motionless in the background. "So, I wonder, could I have him back? I'm really sorry about this."
"Well, you'll have to ask Lauralee. It's her kitten.” She turned to call for Lauralee and was startled to find her standing right there. "Oh, Lauralee, here, why don't you talk to the man."
"I hope you understand.” Carl said, as Lauralee stepped forward.
"Sure," she said. "Take him.” There wasn't the slightest hint of disappointment or insult or anything negative, in her voice. The tone was, rather, one of acceptance, almost of relief.
Carl followed Lauralee into the yard. As she unfastened the furry blonde bundle, Mrs. Majestic appeared again, on the porch. "We just don't want them to run away or get hit by a car,” she said, more as an explanation than as a defense.
"Well, thanks again. I really appreciate your understanding." Carl turned to walk back down the alley with the kitten carefully secured in his crossed arms.
"Bye," said Lauralee. Mrs. Majestic had already disappeared back into the house.
*************************************************************
Two days later, on Saturday, Carl was working in his small vegetable garden, located at the lower end of the back yard when Lauralee appeared from the alleyway. He did not hear her approaching.
"So, did you find another home for Cassidy yet?"
Startled by her sudden appearance, Carl stood and said, "Oh … um, no. In fact, I decided to keep him. I can handle two cats, I think. There he is, right up there.” Carl pointed toward the porch, where Cassidy lounged with his head hanging over the edge of the wood floor. Phaedra sat close by, on the stone walkway leading from the garden to the porch.
"That's great,” said Lauralee, before suddenly changing the subject. "Carl, would you do me a favor?"
"Sure. What?"
"If you don't feel like it, or can't, just tell me, okay? I'll understand."
"Okay, fine," Carl responded matter-of-factly. "What is it?"
"It's a pretty big favor."
"Fine. What?"
*************************************************************
One week later, on Saturday morning at 6:30, Carl's phone rang.
"Good morning, it's Lauralee."
"Good morning.”
"My mother should be leaving in about a half hour. I'll call you as soon as she goes. My dad will be home around 7:30. We have to leave before he gets here."
"All right."
"Are you sure about this. I mean, are you sure it's okay?"
"Well, I want to help you out. Are you sure?"
"Of course. Well, I'll call back soon."
"Okay, bye."
"Bye.”
At 7:10, Carl's received a “time to go” text message. Less than ten minutes later, he and his blue Toyota Tercel were in the alleyway outside of Lauralee's house. He opened the hatchback and hoisted Lauralee's large tan suitcase and smaller blue bag into the cargo space.
Before getting into the car, Lauralee walked over to Scruffy and Sasha, two living statues squatting within their prescribed life-spaces. She leaned over and unfastened them, leaving a collar (with identification tag) attached to the end of each rope. The cats, apparently unaware of their new freedom, did not move from their spots. Lauralee reached down and picked up the blue collar, to which was attached a small, round, gold-colored metal tag. Then she examined the pink collar, which had a heart-shaped tag made of the same material. Lauralee pulled an envelope from her back pocket and placed it within the circumference of the pink collar, laying it carefully back on the ground. The cats remained motionless.
After returning to the car, Lauralee asked Carl to wait for a minute to see if the cats would run. Instead, they seemed completely uninterested in moving at all.
"OK, well, let's go. I don’t want to miss the plane."
The Toyota eased away from the edge of the yard, kicking up some dust as it crept to the end of the alley. He turned right, then right again onto Clermont Street. Just past the Gerber factory, Carl eased onto the ramp for the highway leading east, out of town and toward Philadelphia.
In the relatively closed space of the car, Carl recognized the now-familiar smell of Lauralee's perfume mixed with cigarette smoke. He had never seen her smoking but had noticed the pack of cigarettes in her bag when they first met in his backyard. The perfume had a certain sweetness to it and mixed with the smoke, the combination was uniquely Lauralee.
"So, what did you tell your mother?"
"I told her I was going shopping with my friend Rosie. She'll learn the truth later."
"Was that a note you left?"
"Yeah, I put it with one of collars. They'll discover everything at once. Note, missing daughter, maybe missing cats. Oh, and I said that someone from work was driving me, but I didn't say who. They won't know that you're involved.”
On the way to the airport, Lauralee flipped through a dog-eared copy of Survivors’ Edge magazine. She read aloud to Carl.
"See, here it is. It says, 'Freedom Renaissance: We need individuals with computer skills (word processor, database, spreadsheet, social media) to assist in our information campaign. Use your skills to serve your fellow man, promote the cause of liberty, and prevent the rise of world government. Write to Freedom, P. O. Box 924, Jenkins, Montana.'"
"That's who you wrote to?"
"I wrote to two different ones. Similar. Both in Montana. They both want to meet me."
"You're sure you know what you're doing here?"
"Yes, I'm sure. Now you sound like my mother."
"Well, you just have to be careful, that's all."
"I'm careful. Look, I'm just going to check it out, that's all. If it works, fine. If not, I'll try something else or come back home. And don't worry about the money. I'll pay you back no matter what."
"I wasn't worried about that. Just your safety, that's all. How did you first get interested in this stuff, anyway?"
"What stuff?"
"I don't know, survivalism, the prepper movement, anti-government, whatever you want to call it."
"A lot of people at work are into it. And my ex-boyfriend used to talk about it all the time. It just makes sense, that's all. Things are going to get worse before they get better. It's smart to be ready, so that's what I'm doing."
"Ready for what?"
"For whatever. The government trying to take over our lives, stealing our freedoms. There's a lot of stuff going on that most people aren't aware of. I owe it to the future to do what I can. Don't you agree with that?"
“Well, yes, of course I agree. I'm in favor of the future.” Carl meant this to be humorous, but it didn't come out that way.
Then, changing the subject, Carl said, "By the way, I have that recommendation letter for you. I made three copies and addressed it 'To Whom It May Concern.' Is that alright?"
"Sure. Thanks a lot. That'll really help. Did you say you were a professor with a Ph. D. and all?"
"Well, yes.” Carl handed her a manila file folder with three identical letters on college stationary.
"Good.” As she inspected the letter, she said, "Oh, yeah. Excellent. Thanks!"
During the rest of the hour-long drive, Lauralee alternated between paging through her magazine and gazing thoughtfully out of the window. Carl was silent, except during the occasional exchange of small talk. In the background, songs from one of Carl’s custom Spotify playlists – called Best Classic Rock Travel Songs – were emanating from the car speakers. Magic Carpet Ride (Steppenwolf) was followed by Crazy Train (Ozzy Osbourne), Life in the Fast Lane(Eagles), Ramblin’ Man (Allman Brothers Band), and Fly Like an Eagle (Steve Miller Band).
“That’s me!” Lauralee suddenly interjected, her head bolting upright and toward Carl, as if she was receiving a revelation. “I want to fly like an eagle, let my spirit carry me, fly until I’m free. That’s what I’m doing, right?” Carl only nodded but when the song ended, he hit the backtrack button and allowed the Steve Miller Band to play one more time. They both moved in time with the music, Lauralee moving her head and Carl tapping fingers on the steering wheel.
At one point, Carl imagined himself as Lauralee's father, perhaps driving her to college, where she had chosen a major with which he was not entirely comfortable. Though concerned with her choice of direction, he was supportive of her decision and respectful of her need for independence.
Carl was also supportive (to a fault, as they say) when it came to many of his students at the college, especially the struggling ones, those who seemed starved for reassurance, for acknowledgment, for some small measure of validation. It was gratifying, while at the same time tragic, to observe how these young anguished souls would come alive at the merest encouragement or praise for their works-in-progress or their questionable aspirations. With so few truly tangible rewards in teaching, this was one that Carl held dearly. After all, he first went into teaching because he wanted to help people improve their own lives, help them make decisions for themselves. And that's what he was doing now, supporting Lauralee in her quest for a better life. Right? Hopefully. If only it was something other than ... Freedom Renaissance, whatever that means.
They arrived at the airport a little past 8:30. Carl parked the car and walked Lauralee into the ticketing area. They stood together in front of the looming schedule board, which indicated that the departure for Billings, listed for 10:10, was to be "On Time.”
Lauralee reached up and grasped Carl's hands. He twitched slightly, surprised by their first physical contact. Lauralee's hands were very soft and cool, her skin even smoother than it looked. "Well, thanks, Carl, I appreciate this so much. You have no idea.” She maintained her hold as Carl stepped closer to her, loosening the bond that stretched between them.
"Sure, I'm glad to help. Be sure to call your mother when you get there, okay?"
"Yes, daddy," she said, using the mock baby voice.
After a moment, Carl said, "Well, I guess I'll go. It looks like your flight is all set. Unless you want me to stay."
"No, I'll be okay.” Lauralee said, slowly releasing her grip on his hands.
"Drop me a line, if you can," Carl said. "You know the address."
"Sure. I will."
"Good-bye."
"Bye." As Lauralee disappeared through the security checkpoint, Carl turned and walked away, through a gathering mass of arriving passengers.
*************************************************************
The next few months were mostly routine for Carl, busy but typical, the way he liked it. He had his fall semester classes and his work on the house. However, there was also Lauralee, thoughts of her, that is. In the absence of any communication, Carl couldn’t help but imagine a series of alternate scenarios: (1) She got the job and all is well. (2) She didn’t get the job but found something else and decided to stay in Montana anyway. Either of these two scenarios could also include the possibility of meeting someone (a man) and striking up a romance. (3) She got herself into some sort of trouble of which her parents might be aware. Of course, Carl couldn’t exactly inquire, as his role in Lauralee’s “escape” was clandestine as far as her parents were concerned. (4) She decided to disappear from the grid on her own and live a life of solitude. This scenario seemed unlikely to Carl. (5) She was in really bad trouble, maybe injured, maybe dead. Carl pushed this scenario away as soon as it materialized in his mind.
Carl immersed himself in his school work, as usual, and he began a few new household projects that also helped him worry less about the whereabouts and well-being of Lauralee. When he did think about her, an element of discomfort predictably accompanied those thoughts. Is it appropriate for a 61 year old man to be preoccupied with thoughts of a woman less than half his age? There seemed to be a range of emotional attachments involved here, with blurred lines between. Though Carl was missing Lauralee, it also occurred to him that her inaccessibility might be in his – and her – best interest at the moment.
*************************************************************
On November 8, almost four months after Lauralee left home, Carl received a handwritten letter from her:
11/8
Dear Carl,
Well, here I am! Sorry for not writing sooner. They suggested that we don't communicate with the outside during the first few months of training. Also, I've been so busy. I'm working for Freedom Renaissance. Mostly computer stuff – typing, data base, mailings, stuff like that. It's great, the people are really nice. So dedicated to the cause. My parents know I'm okay (I thought you'd want to know that). I probably won't be back for a while, but if I visit, I'll be sure to let you know.
Bye.
Love, Lauralee
In a few weeks, a second letter (typed this time) arrived from Lauralee, whose tone had changed dramatically:
11/29
Carl,
Hi. Our work is really picking up now. So much to do to get the message out!
Carl, I've learned so much -- things they never tell you in school. The government is so out of it, so off-base. We've allowed our country to slide into a disgusting state which it hasn't a snowball's chance in hell of recovering from unless we all wake up and do something!
People think militias are bad. But they're not! Gun-control fanatics don't know what they're talking about. It's not the militias who rob people, or kill their own kids, or terrorize senior citizens. No! The militias are the patriotic ones, the true Americans. I know you probably don't agree with me. Jack, our Chief of Operations, says college professors are the worst, but I bet you're different.
I've been learning about a lot of different stuff here -- how to survive in the wilderness (God forbid!), about weapons, self-defense, diseases, government plots, the FBI, CIA, etc.
Anyway, this is the first time in my life that I've felt really free and really alive! Like I have a mission in life!
That's all I can write for now.
Love,
Lauralee (they call me "Tech Girl" here. Very funny.)
The next communication from Lauralee came in a 6" x 9" envelope, along with a paperback book entitled Long-Term Survival Guide for Preppers: The Basics. The following typed message was enclosed:
12/5
Dear Carl,
All's well. But this may be the last you hear from me for a while. We're going into hiding soon. By the time you get this letter -- well, I don't know what.
Thanks so much for all you have done for me. Please read this book when you get a chance. The author is a member of our group.
Patriotically yours,
Lauralee
"Thanks so much ...” Carl read these words several times, as if to reassure himself that what he had done for Lauralee did, in fact, warrant thanks.
On December 10, the newspaper story of a sabotaged train, with sixteen passenger deaths, caught Carl's attention for other than the obvious reasons. For one thing, the train was blown up somewhere between Billings and Great Falls, Montana. Second, the only suspect caught alive was someone named Jackson Makepeace, self-described Chief of Operations for a group calling itself Freedom Renaissance. But he had escaped within two hours of his capture by local police. Third, among the dead were three suspected saboteurs, two men and one woman, still unidentified, pending notification of their families.
For days, Carl watched for any telling activity around the Majestic house, but nothing unusual could be observed. Then, on December 23, to his surprise and immense relief, Carl received another letter from Lauralee, written in longhand as the first letter had been.
Dear Carl,
I'm alive and well. I wrote to my parents, too, but told them not to look for me. You won't be hearing from me for a while. We are hiding ourselves very carefully and will have to stay in hiding for some time.
This letter will be re-routed to avoid postmark identification. Please trust me - all is well and I'm okay.
At this time, all I can say is: The train thing was necessary. Tragic but absolutely necessary. It's for the greater good.
All my love, and thanks again.
Lauralee
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Final exam week at the college began on December 15th and ended on the 20th. Carl spent a quiet Christmas holiday with his brother and sister-in-law in Strausstown, about 35 miles away. Then, the next two weeks were occupied with organizing spring semester classes and attending to various household projects. All the while, Carl’s attention was consumed with thoughts (mostly worries) of Lauralee. Nevertheless, the time between semesters brought a kind of freedom that Carl treasured: freedom from daily teaching responsibilities, freedom from academia in general.
One January afternoon, Carl began reading Long-Term Survival Guide for Preppers: The Basics, the book Lauralee had left with him. While the subject matter was mostly survival-related, there was an obvious anti-government, intolerant, even disturbingly hateful overlay on the factual content. Carl tried (with difficulty) to imagine Lauralee using phrases like "sleazy draft-dodging bleeding heart liberals" and referring to government leaders as "Josef 'der Fuhrer' Biden” and "Kommie Kamala.” Five pages in and with a sigh of disgust, Carl gave up on it.
On January 7, Carl picked up a copy of Countyline Daily Gazette at the local grocery store and his attention was immediately captured by the headline which read: "Local Woman Charged in Terrorist Shoot-Out That Leaves Five Dead.” Intuitively, Carl knew that the story was about Lauralee, but he couldn’t bear to read further until he got home.
SHERIDAN, Utah - Police here report that Bethel resident Lauralee Majestic, of 23 Manos Street, was among seven individuals arrested and charged in the deaths of two police officers and three employees of the Utah Trust Bank in Sheridan (see related story, this page). Those charged are reportedly members of a terrorist organization known as Freedom Renaissance. A total of nine individuals were involved in the attempted bank heist, in which one Freedom Renaissance member was gunned down and killed as he attempted to escape the scene. A second member, who did escape, has been identified as Jackson Makepeace, the purported leader of the terrorist group.
At this time, Majestic and six others face numerous charges in the case, including first degree murder. Most are also suspected of involvement in the deadly December train bombing near Billings, Montana. Bail has been denied for all defendants. Countyline Daily Gazette will report further developments as the information becomes available.
There were several related stories on the front page, including the Associated Press release about the incident and a sketchy profile of Lauralee under the headline, "Majestic Was Model Student and Hard Worker.” Carl skimmed this article, which consisted of generous quotes from the high school guidance counselor, a few of Lauralee's former teachers, and a foreman at the Gerber factory. All agreed that Lauralee was, in fact, a conscientious student and a dedicated worker and that the news of her arrest came as a complete shock. The article concluded by indicating that Lauralee's parents were unavailable for comment.
Carl placed the newspaper on top of the TV and sat on the couch. Also on the table before him were various magazines and pieces of old mail, including the letters from Lauralee, arranged in piles. Carl slouched there for several minutes, eyes closed, thumb and forefinger massaging the bridge of his nose.
What about those letters from Lauralee? Should he destroy them? No, better not. Carl mentally reviewed their conversations: in Lauralee's room, in his yard, and in the car on the way to the airport. Would he be required to recount them as well? Would his testimony hurt Lauralee, make it worse for her? Would he help the prosecution to prove premeditation? Would he have to tell them that he gave her money?
Carl's body surged with a nervous energy that was part worry and part guilt, plus a strong desire to help. Despite it all, he wanted to rescue Lauralee, tell her it was okay, say he was sorry for helping her to get into this mess, and offer to assist – protect – her in any way possible.
Outside, the afternoon light faded into the darkness of a winter's evening. A single shaft of light partially illuminated the still mostly unread book from Lauralee, lying on the coffee table and presenting itself as some sort of challenge … or dare.
Just before 5:30, Carl sat up and groped in the dark for the television remote control. As the evening news began, the screen was filled with images from Sheridan, Utah, including police officers and police vans and a group of suspects, hands cuffed behind their backs. A general scene of chaos flashed out of focus in the background. Next, Lauralee's face – in a mug shot pose – filled the screen. Apart from a bruised eye and uncharacteristic sneer, she was the same young woman who thanked Carl at the airport, who held his hands, just a few months prior to the moment of this photograph.
Long after these images disappeared and the program turned to other news, Carl sat motionless with his eyes fixed on the blank white wall just above the television set. There, Lauralee's face lingered, but the bruise was gone and instead of sneering, she was smiling in that more familiar, secretly amused way. Then her smile changed slightly and her lips parted, as if she were preparing to speak. But there were no words and her lips closed again, as did her eyes. Carl saw resignation in Lauralee's face. Or maybe it was something else, like defiance … or determination.
Carl gazed down at the small stack of Lauralee's letters on the table before him. He reached and picked up one of them, tilting it to read in the light of the television screen. In the second paragraph, he read, "Thanks so much for all you have done for me.”
Then, still holding the letter, Carl picked up the Long-Term Survival Guide for Preppers and opened it randomly to a chapter entitled “Freedom is a Choice, But It’s Not Free.” Then he read from the letter again, out loud this time: "Thanks so much for all you have done ..."
Carl's eyes moved once more to the wall above the television. Lauralee's image had, by now, vanished. Inhaling, then exhaling deeply, he said aloud, "So, what exactly have I done?"