Free The Juliet Stories by Carrie Snyder Page A

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    Charlotte says, “All I’m asking is to get out into the campo , away from Managua. To do something that matters!”
    Gloria says, “I trust Bram’s judgement.”
    “You could put in a good word for me — please, say something to him,” says Charlotte.
    “I could not,” says Gloria. “If he doesn’t think you should be in the campo , then you shouldn’t be in the campo .”
    “I didn’t volunteer to hang around an office all day.”
    Silence.
    Charlotte: “Aren’t you bored, stuck in the house? With the kids? Left behind? Don’t you find it all very sexist? Misogynistic?”
    Snort. “Charlotte, ask yourself, why do you want to go so badly?”
    “Why wouldn’t I?”
    “Charlotte, I’ve been watching you. I’m warning you to be careful. That’s all: be careful. Take care. You are the one who will get hurt.”
    Pause. Juliet sits down hard in the desk chair. It squeaks. She hears her mother walking towards her.
    “Juliet, you are not supposed to be in here. Move it. Out.”
    “You’re wrong,” says Charlotte, following. “About everything.”
    “Oh God, that’s shit. Watch where you step.” Gloria bends just outside the office door and with a leaf scoops a curl of toddler poop off the porch tiles and tosses it under the front coconut palm. “Well, I hope I am,” she says to Charlotte. “That would be nice for a change.” And then she goes looking for Emmanuel, to wipe him clean.
    Juliet feels an overwhelming urge: she wants to touch Charlotte, the edge of her skirt, the back of her hand, the feathery hairs on her arm. She slides closer, but is too shy.
    “I don’t want you to go to the campo ,” Juliet whispers.
    Charlotte turns and gazes with eyes that see shape and form and shadow, but not Juliet. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself, nameless, unreasoning,” she says.
    The protestors from Ohio are leaving for the campo in the morning. For their send-off meal they will feast outdoors. Juliet, Keith, and Emmanuel walk with their mother to the field at the end of their street, which belongs to nobody. Littered grass is stamped flat under all these feet, and blankets are spread on muddy ground. The afternoon rains have come and gone. The cook stirs a giant pot of indio viejo , a traditional stew of cornmeal cooked over a fire, flecked with beef and tomatoes and seasoned with mint and bitter oranges.
    It is growing dark, as it does here, early. Gloria points to the belt of Orion, faint and clear against the steady sky.
    “What’s that hanging from his belt?”
    Gloria says it’s a knife. A hunting knife.
    Bram’s head and shoulders loom above the crowd. He is going to the campo too, and he seems removed from them, as if he has already left behind his family, and they him, as if they need no further goodbye. Juliet eats where she drops, close to Charlotte, who notices and wraps an arm around her, draws her into a circle of grown-up talk.
    Marta walks among the group, gathering plates and utensils in a large plastic bin. The puppy stumbles behind, nipping at her heels.
    Bram calls for song, and Gloria lifts her guitar and plays, joined by the pluck of banjo strings, the rattle of tambourines, and by Charlotte’s open throat: Oh, woman, would you weep for me?
    Voices swept together by darkness, satiation. Apart, they come together, in a faraway land, far away from home.
    “Let’s dance!” Charlotte moves, she moves, she moves with the spirit, but Juliet hesitates. “Never hesitate. Start with your parts. Hold out your hand. Start with this one.”
    A girl in parts.
    One hand. One wrist. One elbow. One shoulder, two, and down the other arm and on, until piece by piece her entire body is in motion. Hips and knees and head and feet and guts, and who is watching? No one. Juliet is entwined, enmeshed with her own body. She is whole, she’s forgotten that her spirit is separate, because it isn’t, when she’s dancing.
    Everyone is moving.
    Charlotte, neck exposed,