A Parking Lot Full Of Stones

The party store the Guls owned was within walking distance of our house.

But let me back up a minute to explain that very Midwestern sentence.

In Michigan, where I grew up, a “party store” is not a place to buy helium-filled balloons, or economy packs of Power Ranger-themed napkins and paper plates, no. A party store is a convenience store, a Kwickie Mart, a 7-11. Back in the 80s, they were everywhere and they were family-owned and the Guls, an Iranian-American family, happened to own the one nearest my house.

In rural Michigan, “walking distance” was a flexible term. It was all relative to how far away the places you needed to walk to were. I was 12 and lived about 15 minutes driving to anything interesting. So that’s how the Guls’ store became a neighborhood hangout. In 20 minutes, my friends and I could walk down a two-lane country highway and buy all the pop, Fritos, and Snickers bars we could afford. But the real attraction was in the back of the store.

If you walked past where Mr. Gul sat beside his cash register and turn left down a shadowy hallway, a neon glow would eventually greet you. It was there we would gather around the latest arcade games. Two at first, and then the Guls expanded to three.

The arcade hallway also happened to be the connection between the Guls’ store and their home. Through that closed door at the end, we could smell unfamiliar food cooking and hear people, usually women, chattering in a language we didn’t even know the name of.  Without fail, the Guls conversations would switch from Farsi to English when they walked through that door. The switch wouldn’t even register on their faces or in their body language; their cultural identity shifted as naturally as the cows in the fields outside shifted their weight to walk.

I suspect that door was also where the Gul children traded in their Persian names for English ones. I never knew the names Victor, Lila, and Ashley’s parents called them. Victor was a year younger than me in school. He had a round face with dark eyes and a gleaming smile. He didn’t have an accent; he was American, born and raised.

When Victor came through that hallway, he’d always stop and joke around with us until his father called him to stock the refrigerated case or sweep the parking lot.

He would sweep the entire parking lot. He’d even sweep the large stones that acted as barriers between the lot and the small patch of lawn that separated it from the trailer park street. While he swept, Victor waved to the cars that drove past. The store was on the corner of the country highway and the entrance drive to a large trailer park, so he knew most of the people in the cars. He swept and waved daily for years.

In 1990, two major things happened: I turned 16 and received my driver’s license, and the United States began sending troops to Kuwait to fight in Operation Desert Storm. The idea of wars wasn’t completely lost on me; we’d read about them in history class. Still, I was surprised at how little our lives had changed after President Bush had invaded. I was surprised at how few people even talked about it.

One morning, I got up early—I think I had to open the Subway restaurant I worked at—and headed to Gul’s party store for breakfast. As I was approaching, I saw all five of the Guls standing in the lot looking at the huge stones blocking the entrance to the parking lot. Someone had moved the barriers from the edges of the lot. The words “Go home Camel Jockeys” were spray-painted in red across the stones. With no way to pull in and a job to get to, I kept driving. I don’t remember thinking about it much after that. Work and school and friends kept me busy.

A few months later, my dad mentioned that the Guls had gone out of business. Apparently, the people of the trailer park got together and decided not to shop there anymore. They turned on a dime

Living just down the street, we hadn’t heard a thing about it. It never occurred to me that someone would treat the Guls that way. They’d been a part of the neighborhood almost all of my life.

Early early draft. Constructive criticism welcome.

Crossing a River

The first time I traveled to a different country I was a junior in high school. Friends had decided they’d rather take the train from Flint, Michigan, to Toronto, Canada, than rent formal wear and a limo and go to prom and invited me to come with.

Being a geography nerd, I fantasized about the trip in the weeks before we left. The only Canadian I’d met before was my grandfather (but he’d been an apple-pie-eating American for decades by the time I came around) so my imagination went wild. I learned from an episode of the Brady Bunch that Hawaiians welcomed travelers with a garland of flowers. So I figured a similar ceremony would greet me when we crossed the border: mounties knighting me with hockey sticks, customs agents anointing me with maple syrup, a dexterous moose pinning a maple leaf brooch on my REM sweat shirt; that sort of thing. I was pretty disappointed when we crossed the St. Clair River and I didn’t even hear a cheer.

(source: wikimedia.org)

The greeting came after we stepped off the train. Hello, strange money. Hello, taxi drivers whipping down Yonge Street using the “wrong” lane. Bonjour French words burbling at the bottoms of signs. When we arrived at the subway station, a man standing on a milk crate was spouting off about the evils of America to anyone who would listen. The Greedy States of America, he’d said, lewdly rubbing his fingers and thumbs together. I pulled my jacket a little tighter as I walked with my friends past the train station pundit, through the crowded platform, and toward the first subway station I’d ever encountered. That was the moment I first realized I had transformed into a capital-F Foreigner. How I had become something so political and mysterious just by sitting on a train playing cards mystified me.

We struggled—my friends and I—to follow the instructions written on the subway fare machine even though they were in English. After a while, a man in a beret approached us: “I can see you are in need of some orientation.” He enunciated each word, then he explained in a very practiced way how to buy a ticket and board the right train.

After a short subway ride, we found our hotel and proceeded to ramble around the city for the next four days completely in awe at the cultural differences we saw. Those differences were, of course, minute—only impressive to a group of 17 year olds who had never known another way of life.

On Sunday we found ourselves stepping into a train on another smoky platform. I felt like I was boarding a spaceship to go home and tell my people all the wonders I’d seen.

Hensall railway station

I didn’t know it at the time, but my grandfather Nelson Harburn and his large family had made the same journey to Flint on a Grand Trunk train 70-odd years before me. The difference was that they had birdcages and trunks, hat boxes and linens with them. They were crossing the St. Clair River for good.

Up until the day they left, the boys in the family had worked in the fields around their house in Hensall, Ontario, to keep the farm going for the new owners. Meanwhile, the women packed up the house, emptied the cellar, and sold the furniture. I imagine they talked about their new lives in the city as they worked. When the family came together for dinner, the women asked the older brothers, who had visited Flint before, to tell them again about the car traffic, the groceries, the department stores.

George, the oldest Harburn sibling, and his new wife were waiting in a little white house for their arrival. Flint, at the time, was a burgeoning industrial hub thanks to the automobile industry. Factory managers practically hired men off the street. My great-grandfather William was probably the one who’d contacted General Motors. In 1919, the conservation legacy of nature lover Theodore Roosevelt still dominated, and the auto industry was in trouble over air pollution. William Harburn farmed and distributed flowers for a living. He or George negotiated a deal to start a farm across the river from the main factory to prove there was no environmental threat. In addition, the Harburns offered their flower inventory to the company’s many social events and landscaping needs. GM agreed, giving them land and a company house.

The new home had only three bedrooms, but the Harburns didn’t complain. They arrived in Flint excited all the same. Imagine 12 people—two married couples!—crammed into a house in the city. Imagine all of the cultural differences the family would have encountered all at once: Canadian to American, country to city, independent to corporate.

And the Harburns, relatively speaking, had it easy. They arrived with a house and a purpose. They spoke the language. They had the safety of their motherland waiting just across the river with open arms.

Click here to see a copy of the record immigration officials took the day my grandfather arrived in Flint.
All relevant sources can be found here.
A short biography of my grandfather can be found here.

The Sponsor

AFTER THE “ALL CLEAR” SIREN echoed through the streets of the town, Zsofia and Piri emerged from a shelter and continued their walk home from work. Piri steered them a different way—down a street Zsofia usually avoided. They found themselves marooned between porches of makeshift halfway homes filled with men and women eagerly smoking. They were soldiers recovering from battles with the Ambassador’s armies. Each of them wore gold headbands, the rebel force’s insignia. The color—of scrum, of corn, of pride—symbolized the reasons for the war. Zsofia felt eyes search her as she passed. Could they tell her secret? Could they see she was not one of them?

One soldier, her hair in tangles past her belt, presided over a low table holding the dismantled pieces of a gun. A chamois cloth skittered like a hummingbird from part to part despite the fact that the woman’s hands remained at her sides. She snarled when she caught Zsofia’s eyes.

Zsofia thought of a wolf and shivered, but maintained her bearing. A reflex. After many steps, they turned a corner and Zsofia burst open: “Why did you take us that way?”

“I forgot they lived there now. I’ll make it up to you.” Piri put her arm around Zsofia’s shoulders and handed her a brown box with a wide, red ribbon. “Here. To celebrate your husband’s promotion.” Zsofia stopped walking to open the gift.

Beneath layers of pink crepe paper lay an elegant pair of shears. The lowering sun highlighted its ornamentation. With the blades closed, the ovals at the ends of the handles formed a lowercase g, as if its purpose was solely for pleasing the eye and not for the slicing of hair. Without thought Zsofia told her friend she couldn’t accept such an expensive gift: food and scrum were scarce, and Piri’s tunic hung so loosely on her frame. Everyone in the kingdom starved, except the people living in the Ambassador’s castle.

“It’s nothing. Mother left us an enormous collection. If this pair weren’t with you, it would be at the bottom of a drawer.”

Zsofia cocked her eyebrows at her friend. Piri reassured, “A beach can’t possibly account for every grain of sand.”

“They’re beautiful, thank you, but I only magic with water. What would I do with them?”

“My sister taught me how to cut hair using these…” Piri wiggled her fingers. “It’s easy once you know how. I thought I’d give you lessons every night after work until you’ve got it.” Piri took the shears from Zsofia. “And when we finish with the lessons, I’ll cut your hair, how does that sound?” She opened and closed the blades. Snip, snip, snip. “I’m told all the women of the Ambassador’s court wear their hair short. Shall we practice a bob so you’ll fit in nicely when your husband finally calls you to the castle?”

“I doubt I’ll even see courtesses when I’m there.”

“Yes, but it’s just a matter of time before you spend your days with them. Soon you and Laszlo—with your specialties—will be at the Ambassador’s elbow, I’ve no doubt.”

Zsofia felt a pang of guilt knowing she will leave behind her friend. Piri would never ask for an invitation to the castle, but Zsofia knew she hoped for one. Who wouldn’t wish to escape ration shortages and warning sirens? Zsofia knew that chanters like Piri were unlikely to be accepted within the walls of the castle. The Ambassador favored specialists. Zsofia failed to see why—they were all conjurors. What difference did it make if some spoke words and others willed their magic?

“Did you notice the witch cleaning her gun back there?”

Piri’s steps stuttered on the cobblestone. “Please don’t use that word. Yes. She could benefit from my lessons as well.”

“Do you think she’s heading back to war?”

“Maybe, or maybe she’s just getting married in the morning.” Piri snapped the shears again.

“She was telekinetic—why would she be fighting for the Rebels?”

“No, her lips were moving. She’s ordinary, like me,” Piri said, before tugging a coil of Zsofia’s blonde hair. “Ordinary in magicking, that is. I’m extraordinary with shears. You’ll see. When I’m done with you, your sponsor will think you’ve always lived in the castle.”

 

LASZLO’S LETTER ARRIVED A FEW WEEKS LATER. On the morning of her interview for admission into the castle, Zsofia walked many miles in a storm. The rain squelched any excitement or nervousness she felt; it also drenched her fresh haircut. As she approached the massive wall encasing the castle, she strained to make out the crenelated peak of the tower against the sky. Aside from mountains, it was the largest thing she’d ever seen. Guards met her at the bridge; one verified her name, the other carried her baggage into the gatehouse and set it down next to three chickens. From that point on, Zsofia could not say where inside the castle they took her, except that when their journey ended her wait began.

She sat alone in a cavernous room the color of October wheat. An oak desk guarded her, its face marred with a stain. She wondered about it until the sun leapt into the room through several windows widely spaced along the far wall. A beam shone directly on the stain.

Eventually another guard came and asked Zsofia to stand. After she obeyed, he magicked her chair back and to the side of where it had been, and asked her to take it once more. He positioned another chair some distance in front of her. An ornate throne emerged from the shadows and heeled behind the desk. Then the guard with the telekinetic specialty left for a moment and returned with a man dressed in a purple coat. The coat had embroidered eagles the size of drop cakes stacked talon to head down the front. The man’s face was plump and familiar, his shoulders broad and sloping like flying buttresses. Her Laszlo.

She stood to embrace her husband, but the guard barked for her to sit. Laszlo smiled apologetically and then took the chair closest to the desk. Another eagle eyed her from the back of her husband’s coat.

The guard announced the Sponsor. Doors ahead of them parted and a tremendous woman entered, cape aflutter, and took the stately throne. Her long hair was magicked above her head; it lazily swayed with her movements as if she were swimming underwater. Floating opalescent lights spun and flashed from between the tendrils of her hair—it was the work of a very talented specialist, no doubt.

The caped woman addressed her small court. “You are Lazslo, the newly appointed deputy to the Ambassador’s vizier, yes?”

“Yes, Sponsor.” Laszlo’s voice sounded frail. He looked so different; Zsofia panicked that he was not well.

“And this is your wife, Zsofia of Vischla.” The Sponsor kept her gaze on the papers before her.

“Yes.” Her own voice sounded weak. “Yes, Sponsor,” she added, tightening the muscles in her abdomen.

“You, sir, are requesting your wife be brought into the embrace of the Ambassador. You have paid the three million scrum fee and have successfully petitioned the courts. Am I correct?” A flash of emerald light gleamed from her hair.

“You are. Thank you for your consideration, Sponsor.”

“Very well. Let’s begin. To be your sponsor for immigration,” the Sponsor cast her gaze upon Zsofia for the first time. “I must know a little about you. How did the two of you meet?”

“We met when we were young, Sponsor,” Laszlo said. “Before I was brought to the castle I was merely Laszlo, one of the Ambassador’s accountants for the town.”

“Was it always your intention then to bring your wife through when you had permission?”

“We hoped, yes. We are very lucky that it only took three years to garner the Ambassador’s attentions.”

“I see. And you, Zsofia, I notice you are rather thin. Are you ill?”

“No, Sponsor. Our town has been occupied by the rebel forces for many months. We have little there, but what we have we share.”

“When I last saw her she was glowing with health, Sponsor,” Laszlo said. “A few months within the walls will set my darling to rights.” Zsofia did not like the tallow drips she heard in her husband’s voice.

“Being from rebel territory will count against you, I’m afraid. Do you have any specialties with which to bolster your case?” Another flash of light from the Sponsor’s hair, this time amethyst.

“Yes.” Zsofia’s voice held strength. “I am a Water Specialist.”

“Splendid. We are looking for conjurors like you, to purify our wells. Proceed.”

Zsofia bowed her head slightly and showed her palms to the ceiling. Little by little, she summoned the moisture from the oak desk, the window frames, Laszlo’s chair. The droplets scurried across the expanse of the room to gather just inches from her fingertips. She moved them in circles, zigzags, chevrons, and then into an eagle which she made fly over and give her husband a peck. The Sponsor released one shrill cackle.

“Impressive, my dear. And what do you do in your days with the rebels?”

“I spend them at the bogs harvesting water. I spend my nights tutoring children and learning to cut hair.”

“The tutoring is fine, but aiding the enemy is not a good thing to mention in court. A better answer would be that you were finding ways to undermine their plans.” Flashes of amber strobed the room, matching the paint on the walls.

“The rebels were my only source of food, Sponsor, and the water I harvested also quenched the thirsts of my family, my friends.”

“Yes, of course.” The Sponsor picked up a quill. For a long while the only sound in the room was the scratch of its nib on parchment. Yet another guard came in and bowed to whisper in the Sponsor’s ear. Zsofia could not discern words or tone, but after he spoke the Sponsor set her quill down. “Deputy, it seems cutlasses were found among your wife’s things. Unfortunately, your prestigious position and her specialty will not hold against a conviction of treason.”

Zsofia rose and stepped toward the desk. “What are you talking about? I packed no swords.”

“Guard! Bring the weapons here.”

The whispering soldier returned carrying Piri’s beautiful gift broken in two.

“Those are shears. I told you, I’ve been learning to cut hair.”

“Carrying a weapon of any kind into the gates of the castle is illegal and shall not go unpunished.”

“But if I’d had ill intentions, it would be in my apron or strapped to my thigh, wouldn’t it? Please. There must be an office I can appeal to, a line I can stand in. Please, Sponsor, I just want to be with my husband.”

“There is no office; there is no line, Zsofia of Vischla. There is but one door in the gate, and I am it. It is my responsibility to adhere to the laws of the Ambassadorship which you have clearly violated. Guards! Take her to the holding camps. Keep the evidence.”

Laszlo finally stood. “Surely, that’s not necessary, Sponsor. We can… ”

“Do you question my authority, Deputy?” Crimson lights spun wildly above the Sponsor’s head.

Laszlo sat back down.

 

ZSOFIA VOLUNTEERS FOR THE WATCH. She started a few months after she arrived in the camp. In the daytime, her job is to inform the guards of daily arrivals and departures. It is a job she enjoys. One of the delivery men sings as he comes over the hill with his wagonful of onions and salt bread. His carefree demeanor has deemed him her favorite, though they’ve never spoken. The other prisoners are kind. They talk of the weather, of their families and their towns—but never of their court hearings. Zsofia has yet to see a prisoner leave the camp. When they found out she cut hair, they had someone smuggle scissors in—Zsofia guessed it was her delivery man. She cuts to busy her hands; she is not permitted to use her specialty. Laszlo sends letters she doesn’t read, she’s sure they’re syrupy with excuses. She doesn’t know that Piri has agreed to stand as a witness in her defense. She thinks of her friend fondly: Piri could not have known the betrayal of her gift.

At night, the camp is different. Her job is only to watch for dangers, although when peasant boys from the town nearby throw rotten plums and crabapples and slurs through the gate, the guards turn their heads. Still, Zsofia prefers the watch at night because that is when new prisoners are brought in. She can’t help studying their silhouettes as they trudge up the hill. She resents her searches for the slope of Laszlo’s shoulders among them, hoping, but not expecting, that he’ll come. Every day is the same.

Until very early one morning, Zsofia is surprised by two small reflections of light a little distance from the gates. They are low to the ground and remain the same width apart. The eyes of a wolf. Despite the safety of her position, Zsofia holds her breath and keeps still as the form creeps closer. A few minutes later, she hears a low growl behind her. Just in time, she sees the same wolf break across the camp yard toward some trash cans. She quietly descends the rampart steps and finds a hiding place near where she thinks the wolf entered the camp. She crouches, waiting for it to return. Waiting for it to reveal its secret. Waiting to follow it under the gate and out into the countryside.

**This was my entry to the NYC Midnight Short Story contest. The prompts they gave me were fantasy as a genre; weight loss as a subject; and a newly wealthy person as a character. The story received an honorable mention. I’ve posted the judges feedback here.

Crossing Saint Clair

Fingers numb, Sadie ties
wolf skins to the pack
on the toboggan.

The river is finally solid.
She’s told she’s big enough
to toddle over ice.

She double-checks
her knots, picks up
the family hen, and steps

onto the margin between countries.