Hilton stepped from the outhouse with a wide skewed smile, which was not for Fan but the rest of her family, who were now out in the clearing and heading toward them in a pointed mass, Mr. Nickelman at the front, the brass whistle in his mouth. The biggest boys carried machetes. He blew the whistle and the dogs magically aligned onto the family’s formation, trailing them. Shuffling in their midst were Quig and Loreen, who appeared to be clasping hands but were, in fact, secured by their inside wrists and ankles with locking plastic ties. They walked most unsteadily from whatever they’d been given, their eyes glassy but lightless against their pale faces, and before Fan could run, Hilton embraced her from behind with startling strength, a furious but loving hug that would surely never let her go.
I won’t let it happen! Hilton shouted. I just won’t!
Don’t worry your sweet head, Hilly, Mr. Nickelman said, cupping her chin as well as Fan’s. His hand was dry and cold. She’s going to be one of us from now on. She’s just right.
You promise?
I promise. You want to be part of our family, my dear? Why not, right? You’ll have lots of fun.
The entire family was expectantly nodding as though she were simply deciding on whether or not to go on a trip to the mall. And although we can’t be sure exactly what was crossing her mind at that moment, we do know about Fan’s character, which never wavered through her many trials. Was she an especially moral person? That’s difficult to say. She was consistent, is how we will put it, ever the same and same and same, which we suppose can be seen as a kind of integrity that is all too rare these days.
Okay, she said. But why not all three of us?
There was a communal groan and Mr. Nickelman scratched his head, saying, That’s really not in our plans.
That’s right, the old man concurred.
We’re a bit crowded here, Mr. Nickelman said. You’d fit in easily enough but not two more full-sized people. The missus and I are getting full-sized enough, to be honest.
Oh, Philip!
I’m just trying to explain things to Fan. She’s a very capable girl, I can tell. A special girl. We figured out a long time ago what the best way for us was. Others will go about their living differently — he glanced at Quig and Loreen — and that’s neither here nor there. But we choose to live as simply as we can, as sustainably as we can. It’s a wonderful feeling when things are in balance. We feel liberated but we’re not afraid because of our liberty, as most people out here are compelled to be. And we are as free as anyone in a Charter or where you used to live. Maybe more. Sometimes we have to buy or trade things, of course, but we’ve become pretty good at gardening and cheese making and raising our beloved animals, and I’m sure you could help us in that regard. The main thing is, we strive to be completely independent. Certain times that’s impossible, especially in the winter. But each year we always get by and we gain that much more know-how, and we hope some wisdom, too.
And if I don’t want to stay? Fan asked.
But we know you do! Hilton cried, who was now holding her hand, if just as tightly.
That’s right, Mr. Nickelman said, though not quite sounding so nerdy anymore. He blankly regarded Quig, who was clearly not of his own mind and trying to hold back the mud-black tide surging behind his eyes. But he was failing, failing, and maybe finally giving up.
We know you do, Fan, Mr. Nickelman said. You like our show, don’t you?
Yes.
You want to be in it.
Yes.
You like our family?
She nodded.
And we like you! We do, don’t we?
Yes, yes! their chorus implored.
You see, there’s not much else to say. Not much at all. So why don’t you go in now with the ladies. Hilly and the girls will set you up with bedding. Boys, you know the drill.
The younger boys led Quig and Loreen to the pole, securing their free hands and feet to it with more plastic ties.
Oh god! Loreen cried miserably. We’re going to be their meat!
We don’t eat meat, Loreen, Mrs. Nickelman gently corrected her. We never have and we never will.
But the dogs were silently poised, their maws slick and drooling, the muscles of their shoulders and hindquarters pulsing with anticipation.
I want to say good-bye, Fan said.
That’s so good of you, Mr. Nickelman said. So very good. Please, go right ahead.
Fan, with Hilton still in tow, approached Quig and Loreen, who had slumped down to a half crouch, propped by only the pole and each other. Their eyes were open but not fixing on her, and when she hugged and even kissed each of them, the only thing Loreen could muster was a whisper of little New China bitch. Quig said nothing. Fan and Hilton then stepped aside into the weeds and Mr. Nickelman told her it was time now to go inside. This was something she should not see, at least until the next time. But Fan shook her head, which surprised but deeply delighted them all, the blood rising in their necks. The machete-armed boys trooped forward, their blades gray and iridescent.
But then Hilton screamed, holding the side of her face. When she examined her hand it was smeared with blood from a cut running down her cheek. Fan had slashed her with the point of a fence spike. When the armed boys moved toward her, she garroted the girl with the crook of her arm and pressed the point of the spike against her throat.
My Hilly! What are you doing to my baby? Mrs. Nickelman cried. Let her go! Philip!
But Mr. Nickelman couldn’t do a thing. He didn’t dare try to use his whistle. The boys stood down. Fan ordered that Loreen and Quig be cut from the pole and slowly walked to their car and placed in the backseat. She took Hilton in the front seat and started the car, turning it around and rolling slowly back to the main road. The Nickelmans all ran their hands on the car, bleating crazily. Once the entrance cover was cleared by the old man, Fan let Hilton out and then pressed as far down on the pedal as she could, slinging them north in the dusk.
13
We have previously indicated that Fan had larger aims in leaving B-Mor, but perhaps this is not necessarily true. It may be more a matter of our own shifting perspective on that brief period, what we have come to overlay upon her journeys as we revisit them over time than anything she herself was conceiving, planning, implementing. It would appear that she was completely rash in her actions, even reckless, as she set out from our gates and went forth in search of Reg, armed with nothing more than the force of her feeling. We won’t say “convictions,” because it is not in the least clear that she was marching for some cause or platform. And though it seems impossible to think this now, she may not have had any of us in mind, at any juncture. Indeed, she may have had a purely singular concern, which she followed one step at a time, via one person at a time, trusting (perhaps blindly, certainly stubbornly) that each succeeding moment would obtain enough security and succor and an incremental measure of knowledge, which can only lead to greater wisdom.
If she possessed a genius — and a growing number of us think she did — it was a capacity for understanding and trusting the improvisational nature of her will. This might seem a contradictory state, and for most of us it would be. We have hopes and make plans, and if they are dashed or waylaid, we naturally rationalize and redraw the map to locate ourselves anew. Or else we brood and too firmly root. Very few can step forward again and again in what amounts to veritable leaps into the void, where there are no ready holds, where little is familiar, where you get constantly stuck in the thickets of your uncertainties and fears. Fan was different. As we have come to realize, she was not one to hold herself back. Or to be fettered. In this way she startles us, inspires us. She was someone who pursued her project as a genuine artist might, following with focus and intensity as well as an enduring innocence a goal she could not quite yet understand or see but wholly believed.