The Marches

Jared put the avocado-and-cheese sandwich and the bottle of water in his Saturday backpack, made sure the windows were closed and the switches turned off, and locked the front door. He climbed his bike and started pedaling towards Crescentville. A biker came from down the road.

“Morning, Jared,” she called.

Irene moved to the neighborhood ten or eleven years ago with three kids and no husband. She was tall and thin, dark skinned, with high cheek bones and long chin, and you could hear her laughter from the other side of the street.

“Morning, Irene. Where are you biking today?”

“Pony Creek. See you later.”

“Have fun. See you,” he waved, and she disappeared behind him.

Pony creek was a lovely trail. On one side the water flowed leisurely, and on the other trees, bushes, and flowers were growing in disarray. When the kids were young, the family used to bike there on sunny Saturday mornings, like this one. Jane named each plant and explained its medicinal virtues, and he told stories about the history of the country. These days Stan and Cathy are in college, and Jane … That damn obstetrician. He pedaled harder, hurrying up the hill and through Greenridge.

Greenridge High loomed next to him, a white building with thick red, blue, and yellow stripes running on the walls in all directions. Here, Stan fell in love with debating and with Nicky, Irene’s eldest. The second love was short lived; the first held, and now he was a 3L at Northwestern. And Cathy, dear shy Cathy, who spent her childhood dreaming of ladies and nobles, knights and crusades. The three of them used to play the stories she weaved. Once, she was Penthesiliea, the queen of the Amazons, Stan was Hector, and he was Achilles. Her arrow snapped through his heel, and she crowned Stan as the king of all Greece while sitting on her father’s chest. Another time, she was an English orphan, who joined the service of the high Lord of Birmingham, played by himself, and eventually married him and got poor Stan as her servant. Cathy turned down a fellowship from Stanford and preferred Northwestern, to be close to Stan. Jane, I wish you could see them now, grown up, serious, successful, handsome.

The road angled to the right, and the first houses of Crescentville came into view.

“Good morning, Mr. Cliff,” called an early-riser teenager who raked the leaves in his front yard.

Jared waved his hand. He has known the kids of this neighborhood since birth. On his weekly visits to the town, he saw them crawling on blankets, taking their first steps, drawing on the sidewalks with chalks, batting the balls with their families, clearing snow, washing the family cars.

He parked his bike next to a well-groomed lawn. Out of the backpack came the foldable placard and the matching hat. The placard was worn out, and some of the color had vanished, yet the text was as clear as it had been fifteen years ago: “Dr. Olaff killed my wife and baby”. He held the placard above his head and started marching up and down the street. In the first weeks after his wife’s death, dozens marched with him: family and friends and colleagues. Over time they dropped one by one, until only the kids and he continued marching. When Dr. Olaff completed his six-month term at the penitentiary, Jared and the kids resumed their marches. The state may have forgiven the doctor; Jared has not. The Chief of Police talked with him once or twice, trying to convince him to stop harassing the Olaffs. Rumors had it that the doctor refused to complain about the marches, and so the police let him be.

At eleven o’clock, Dr. Olaff’s youngest daughter approached him with a glass.

“Mr. Cliff, would you like some lemonade?”

The girl looked like her mother: blond hair reaching her shoulders, blue eyes, small nose. She smiled at him, like she did every Saturday in the last five years. Winter or summer, rain or shine, he was marching and she offered the drink.

Stan once suggested that they go for a long weekend to the dunes. The idea shocked Jared. Missing a march is like forgetting Jane. And forgetting Jane is forgoing love. That Saturday morning they marched, and after lunch they travelled to the dunes. Never again did Stan suggest spending long weekends outside home.

But then, in his junior year, Stan started missing marches. And when he applied to college, he preferred Stanford and Yale to Purdue, and settled for the only university that offered a fellowship. Was he too demanding with the kids?

Dr. Olaff himself never showed up during the marches. Never apologized. Never admitted the blame. And so, the two of them were locked in a never-ending match of accusation and guilt, loss and neglect.

Since Cathy left home, he asked himself whether to continue the marches. But could he do otherwise? He dedicated the last fifteen years to Jane’s memory, and what will remain of her if he stops? His neighbors and the whole town of Crescentville knew his story, the lonely man who shows up every weekend to cry for the woman he loved and to condemn the man who, instead of giving life to a newborn, killed the mother and the baby.

Yet the story will die in twenty years, when his energy leaves him. Stan will move to New York or LA and he will see him twice a year, and Cathy will be torn between the love for her brother and her wish to stay in Indiana, next to him. And he himself will become lonelier and grumpier than he is today, after giving up the only thing he fought for.

“It is fresh and cold,” the girl said. It was hard for Jared to form her name in his mind. For some obscure reason, most probably to offend him, Dr. Olaff named her Jane.

Or maybe it was an admission of culpability? Could it be that this little girl is a tribute for the life the doctor took? Jared looked for a hint in the girl’s face, and anger filled him. How heartless of them, he realized, to name their daughter after the woman Dr. Olaff killed. And have her see the placard announcing his crime every week. And make her offer lemonade to the widower and be turned down. How cruel it is to turn your daughter into a symbol of your mistake.

His eyes softened. You are such an unfortunate girl, he thought.

“Yes, thank you,” he finally replied and took the glass.

The girl looked startled. No wonder, Jared thought, I deviated from the lines we rehearsed in the last five years. She turned and ran away, the front door slamming behind her.

Jared enjoyed the cool sweet drink. He could not bring himself to enter the property of Dr. Olaff, so he left the glass next to the gate. Did I betray Jane by drinking their lemonade, he asked himself.

Irene’s voice came from behind.

“Jared, do you want to join me for lunch?”

She stopped next to him, all sweat and panting, her riding uniform tight on her body.

 “How was the ride?” he asked.

 “It was gorgeous. There were tons of larkspurs and sunflowers and catchflies. You would have loved it. So, what do you say about lunch? I have chicken pie and mashed potatoes. Tommy texted that he would stay with a friend, so there is plenty of food.”

He glanced at his watch. He should keep on marching for two hours, and he had his sandwich in the bag.

Mrs. Olaff peeked through the window and came to pick up the empty glass.

“Thank you, Mr. Cliff,” she said, nodded, and turned back home.

His gaze followed her and then turned to Irene and her high cheek bones.

“This is a great idea,” he said. “Give me a minute to pack my stuff.”