Free The Kingdom of Ohio by Matthew Flaming Page B

from the daffodils, give my regards to the queen—
    She closes her eyes, wondering what is wrong with her, thinking things like this.
    Peter leans away from her, rubbing his hands over his face.
    He knows this is the point when he should make his excuses, slip her a nickel, and escape. He wants to be practical, to hold true to the rational commandments of his new profession. But for no good reason, and against his better judgment, he finds himself also wanting to hear more of her story.
    â€œSupposing all of this is true. You said you needed something from me?”
    With an effort she brings herself back to the present, making her eyes soft and looking up at him through lowered lashes. “I am a stranger here,” she murmurs, “I know no one. Walking today, I became faint and fell. And when you were kind enough to help me . . .”
    In fact, for a dizzying moment, she cannot remember why she is here, in this seedy restaurant, confessing herself to this shabbily dressed, unshaven stranger. It was only something in his expression, as he watched the birds wing upward over the river, as if transfixed by the physics of their flight, that made her imagine she might—
    â€œYou need a place to stay, then?” he asks roughly.
    She nods and gazes at him—like a moonstruck cow, she thinks, hoping she doesn’t look as ridiculous as she feels.
    â€œAnd you have no money? Nothing?”
    She nods again.
    The thought occurs to him that this all might be an elaborate hoax: that if he agrees to help her, he’ll wake up in the hands of her accomplices—thickset men with low brows who might already be lurking outside. He glances around, knowing that he’ll see nothing, and sees nothing. Only the low ceiling of unfinished beams, the crowded tables, and, beyond the thick windowpanes, the smudged silhouette of the city. Dark columns of smoke rising toward the darkening winter sky—the faintest suggestion of shape and order in the mass of buildings and boulevards that fuse together, tilting downward into night.
    For a long moment, the demands of reason and faith crowd together inside him. Then abruptly he reaches a decision. Not because he believes her story—but maybe because there’s something in her face that intrigues him. Maybe because he is lonely. Or maybe, most simply of all, because he has been waiting for something, and suddenly something has arrived.
    â€œCan’t take you to my rooms,” he tells her. “I don’t live alone, and no guests allowed. But if a roof is what you’re looking for, you can stay in the mechanics’ garage tonight.” He stares at her, afraid to hear her say no, hoping that she will.
    â€œThank you,” she says. And gives him a look of gratitude that—for a moment—makes him feel, despite his misgivings, that maybe he has made the right decision after all.
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    I PICTURE the two of them rising to leave the German restaurant—but however much I want to follow, I realize that I’ll have to leave them there. Because writing these last few pages, I’ve been plagued by the sense that I’m forgetting something. I’ve tried to ignore the feeling—because really, I tell myself, it doesn’t matter. The important thing here isn’t the distant past, or my present: the important thing is what happened in New York. Still, I can’t shake the idea that I’ll be missing a crucial piece if I don’t finish telling the history of the Kingdom of Ohio.
    Because although it’s not the story I sat down to write, I can’t seem to get around the idea that it needs to be told, even if you already know all of this. Because, if nothing else, it seems to me that these things should be recorded somewhere. So that someone besides you and I might read this and remember.
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    In 1785, the Northwest Territory was divided into separate regions 15 that were eligible for