Forgive Me

Red Paper Poppies

They offered it to me, plain and simple. The deal was in the air, and I grabbed for it without any hesitation.

-2/3/1920

Even June could not erase the constant reply of the shadowed voice in my head: "others cannot let us be without agony".

The voice replaced my nightmares with curiosity. Their slur-- almost pure, raw evasiveness-- licked my pondering chin and teased the will of interest inside me. What I could not recall nagged at me; I had seen the face belonging to the whispers but could not call to mind a single defining feature. They were so hunched into themselves that the grin was the only physical object ingrained in my memory. No gum coated those lopsided teeth, only spilling from dry, cracking lips and dripping with something sour and desperate. Somewhere in the thick of my wretched curses, I recognized the same morose flicker in their tongue.

If I was not so enthralled with the anomalous stranger, the eradication of the constant whirring gears in my head would have been a blessing. But, because my heart was just as interested in the ghoul, we did not mind searching for answers.

The early morning was upon me and my head was aching to move out of my prostration from the previous night. At a quick glance, it was early enough for the sun to still be below the horizon. My room, shared with the multiple children snoring on the floor, was as thin and cage-like as a typical apartment, but it seemed like a closet with the crowd of breath fouling up the room. It was difficult to pass from my designated pillow to the door without stomping on pinkies and noses.

My coat stood by the front door, right beside the slumped figure of Abigail over the sofa. June was in her lap, positioned with her cheeks on Abigail's neck and her hands around her waist. It brought a temporary smile to my pensive expression until my eyes landed on the hip flask tucked underneath her skirt, her fingers curled around the open lid.

"Oh, Abigail," I murmured, sliding the frills of it over the flask and laying her palm on her chest. "Happiness will be here soon. I will make sure of it."

I need not describe the amount of rejection and snarls I received the rest of that morning upon question of my employment. At the position I was currently in, there was no picking and choosing the job I acquired. There was only wandering down the street, going door to door, and notifying them of my availability. But with every passing door, the men became more irritated with me. There was no longer a pitied look or a grim pat on the back as they turned me away but a harsh spat and a turn of the cheek. It seemed that even when I portrayed myself as the most zealous woman they could hire, there was not even a hesitation.

Returning to the porch of the complex, arms hanging low, the sting of dismissal's slap still burned my cheek. More than ever my hope was riding dangerously slow in my veins, like it could not bear to exist further. With almost nothing holding my heart steady, I had the inordinate urge to cry.

Before I could release the grip on my sorrow, the view of the crowded street before my apartment lifted my spirits. Despite no grass to roll in or mud to swim in, the children played out front as if none of that mattered. Abigail sat in view on the side of the building inside an old, rusted lawn chair you might see flocking in the suburbs. Here, in the bustling heart of the city, the object was alien.

June, bless her underdeveloped legs, came toddling toward me in hot pursuit of Lars. His complexion, to my surprise, was glowing. What once gave the man a permanent age was now the entity expanding his youth. The undomesticated locks of bushy, soil hair seemed no longer grayed at the roots but honey; it was only complete, however, with the wild facial hair creeping up his neck. The round face that had seemed so unattractive with the look of his scattered appearance now gleamed against the sun, pulling something unimaginable from my chest.

It hurt to see him looking so young.

He told me, when this mess all came to a close, that despite the traces of age popping my skin, there was never a more breathtaking woman than I. My rounded locks hanging above my chin, he said, and the sharp incline from my eyes to my nose were enough to make a man drool. Oh yes, he hummed! The perpetual motion of your still lips, never dropping from their concerned, almost enamored stare. Yes, Missy, the curves of your thighs and the spots on your skin-- they are what make you so beautiful!

My cheeks flush, now, thinking of it.

"Mama, mama!" June yelped, reaching out her fingers for Lars' attainable but quick legs. "Mama, he stole my poppies! He stole my poppies!"

Lars cackled, revealing a little sack in his outstretched hands as he circled around me. "Don't go crying to your mother, missie! I am oh so very frightened of her!"

I snatched the sack from his hands, chuckling when he pouted and dropped them in my daughter's excited embrace. "Now what would you go doing such a thing for?" I snapped at him, though giving away my amusement with a grin.

Before he could think of any excuse better than "she had them, I took them", June sat on the open sidewalk and poured out her sack of poppies into her curled dress. My eyes met the delicate flowers and were taken away from Lars; I had never seen such pieces of artwork. Milky petals rounded the inner base, dotted with the dust and smog of passerbys, and looked succulent enough to nibble. They reminded me, most of all, of the unusual frills laced in the female skirts. If you were to stack the poppies one after the other, not only would it strikingly resemble the skirts but it would also look and feel much more natural.

In the process of her spilling the white poppies, out slid something noticeably red. My daughter's glassy eyes were not aware of the sudden individual beauty and only continued her task. As for me, I found the distinction exhilarating.

Pinching the abnormal flower between my fingernails, I brought it to my eyes for inspection. Not only was the poppy a dramatic fellow but it also was the largest, as if shrieking, "Pick me!" Still, this was nothing compared to the jolt of my heart's eagerness when, upon pinching the center of the flower, it unfolded into strips of crimson paper. It was not a flower at all, I realized, but a message:

Ms. Begum,

It has come to our urgent attention the financial struggle that has befallen your household and we, however strange to you it may seem, are taking the chance to recruit you for work. The citizens of this detestable place have turned away potential, and we wish to snatch it before anyone else can. They do not see the true fire in your eyes, nor the yearning in your heart to make your honest earnings. We do.

We are willing to offer you a deal, and whether or not you comply is up to the state of your family. What we will ask of you cannot be reversed and may send the law enforcement after your head but it will pay you more than any one man in the world receives. Not only this but the guaranteed safety of your child and husband are included thereafter. Even if you were to be executed by the force, they would continue to thrive with our abundance of resources.

As for Ms. Pendant: we have learned of your current troubles and her dedication to both her children and yours. As an added bonus, we will guarantee the safety and nurturing of these children as well.

My heart jumped to my throat and wrung it by the chords. There was only cold in the words of the letter but, even as I scanned the red parchment with starving eyes, my mind soared at the thought of it. Not just because of the money but because it promised me something unattainable: recklessness.

If you are interested, a set of instructions are located inside your daughter's bonnet.

We will be watching.

The letter was not signed but I barely noticed it. Instead, a worm of questions had wriggled into my stomach. Was this linked to the previous voice-- the one that still greased my throat in curiosity? Who was "we"? What sort of horrendous career would lead me to be sought by the police? How much money? But, most of all, how did they manage to sneak instructions inside my daughter's bonnet?

Without willing my hands to do so, they were already searching through June's bonnet for the instructions. My mind was whirling with discomfort, but I could not strike my hands when they had already discovered the familiar red note. Lars, sporting concern in his brow, watched as I uncovered the note and began to read the brief sentence.

Before long, my eyes could go no further, trembling in my skull. And all that overtook the storm in me was this:

What are you willing to do for them?

I turned to him, lips quivering and heart melting, for nothing else on the card could have made me jump so.

"Lars," I wish I would have verbalized, "please forgive me."