The Persecution of Harra Lorton

Rain dancing around her umbrella to the tune of the evening’s gale-force wind, Pamela began to question if accepting Jolie’s invitation was the right move for her Tuesday night as she entered the darkened meeting space in the dilapidated building.

Being new to the town of Warlow, she struggled to make friends in the unnervingly tight-knit community.  She moved there for a new job a month prior while knowing nothing about New Hampshire or the other towns that made up the hairline of the country.  The cross-country trip was made with nothing but a moving truck and her son, Peter, who was old enough to understand The Birds and the Bees, but young enough to be at home with the babysitter for the midweek rendezvous she still did not yet understand.

Once her eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the massive room, she began to seek out Jolie — a task proving to be easier said than done.  It wasn’t simply due to the lack of light, with the entire room lit with a single Victorian candle, but what briefly stopped Pamela dead in her tracks was the uniform memo she apparently did not get.  Each figure appeared as a shadow, a stalking apparition, hooded in dark clothing with masks covering all but their eyes; the only way to tell any of them apart was based on how much space that shadow enveloped.  She didn’t know whether to keep moving forward, cling to the door, or leave and send a Jolie a text from her rolodex of excuses to flake on plans.

Before she could turn around, a heavy hand dropped onto her shoulder, causing a quick, nearly inaudible gasp to escape from her lungs.  The similarly dressed figure placed his index finger perpendicular to his mouth as a silhouette of silence indication.  His opposite hand reached out and give her the ubiquitous thin, black hooded sweatshirt and cotton mask sporting a similar absence of color.  The figure’s bouncer-like frame and stoicism gave Pamela no other choice but to put on the garments and hope to whatever deity that brought this group together that she was making the right decision.

A panel of four sat on a stage in the north end of the room, while the rest of the group staggered themselves throughout seven, maybe eight neat rows toward the middle of the space.  Pamela donned the gifted garments and sat in a rickety chair in the end row, perfect for a wall-laden fly who had no intention of being an active participant.

“Ok everyone, it’s 7:01. I’d like to call this meeting to order,” said a deep voice on the panel.  He was the figure second from the right, Pamela guessed, because in front of him was a wiry microphone that carried his voice throughout the space, quieting the few dozen murmurs that filled it previously.

“As you are all probably aware, the primary item on our agenda tonight is the attempted poisoning of Malachi, the Winslow family’s youngest.”  The leader’s voice was monotone while carrying a bass-like assertiveness that echoed through the room.  “We have yet to find out who did it, but if anyone has any information, I suggest you speak up now before further issues arise.”

The room remained silent.  The lone noise was the swishing of fabric as hoods swiveled on shoulders, everyone in the room looking for a suspect to unveil his or herself and break the tension resting on every heart in the room. What the hell is this group? Pamela thought, as she contemplated what used to be her new friendship. The wax of the candle had yet to drip to the table before she noticed rustling in the left corner of the room.

“Ezekiel, sir, I believe it was Harra Lorton,” the cloaked female said as she pointed across the room. “That is responsible for the Winslow family’s utter tragedy.”

Gasps followed the compass of the finger across the room to a clothed twin of a similar build, who nearly fell out of the chair as a physical manifestation of being taken aback.

“On what grounds are you pinning this blasphemous garbage on me, Carol?” The second assumed female said, standing up out of a boxing corner of her own.

“Well, for starters, it is well known by those in this room that the scourge that has plagued Malachi since birth is that of peanuts and other legumes. And what is it that you made for our event last week? Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches without the option for allergen-free sandwiches?”

The second woman placed her hand on the crest of the hood near her forehead, exasperated at the effort of entertaining the conversation. “The child has a peanut allergy and just broke out into some hives.  It’s not like he went to the hospital. I told him not to eat it and he left my station saying it was for his father.”

More gasps.

“Mrs. Lorton, you are not presenting yourself as the most innocent party involved in trusting the actions of a 10-year-old over your own,” the leader said.

“So I’m on trial because Malachi ate a sandwich I told him not to eat?” Harra said as she walked toward the door. “You know what? Screw this group and its antiquated favoritism. I was trying to do something nice for a group of kids and one allergy-focused mistake puts me up for persecution. I’m out.”

“Ah, Mrs. Lorton not so fast,” the leader beckoned sternly as Harra did an about face toward the front just as she stomped past Pamela. “You know there is only one way out of this group once you join. It is exactly what you signed up for when you entered this room the first time.”

Harra huffed, dropping her hood from behind her head and pulling the tattered sweatshirt off. She dropped it to the floor, staring at it for one second, and then another, contemplating her response. Pamela wondered if someone else was going to be mildly sick and inconvenienced as a punishment.

“Ok fine, I’ll leave the district and move,” Harra said, murmurs bouncing off the walls once again. “Lemonwood will welcome me with open arms, and I’ll be out of your lives.”

“Good riddance,” the supposed Carol called from afar while supplementing her farewell with a pageant wave.

Harra stormed out, the door slammed behind her as much as a hydraulic door can slam. The theatrics did not exactly deter the group, but Pamela’s heart had gone through a CrossFit workout without knowing what was really going on at this meeting.

“If no one has any other items for the agenda, then I move to adjourn early tonight and reconvene next week,” the leader said.

A chorus of “I’s” met the suggestion as the group began to leave one-by-one. Pamela turned to the bouncer and handed over her garb after what had been one of the more confusing events in her recent memory.

The rain had stopped as Pamela walked out to her car, thankfully noticing the lights of the parking lot flickering and illuminating her path. She stopped to turn around, confused that she heard her name in the distance back from where she came. What she found was an exasperated Jolie walk-jogging over to her with a smile on her face.

“Pam, I’m so glad you came!” She said, her blonde ponytail bouncing with every step and the wind at her back. “I just want to let you know, not all of our PTA meetings are like that.  Sorry your first one was during a power outage, it made things a bit weird.”

“Oh no worries! It was definitely interesting,” Pamela’s mouth said, while the only thing ringing in her brain was, First and last.