There were people of every color.
Every speech.
There were high-headed proud types, and then the worst offenders of foot-dragging disease you could ever hope to meet. Then there were people who smiled the whole time, to keep the doubt within. What they did all have in common was that they all seemed to gravitate, in varying degrees, to people of their own nationality. Country ran thicker than most things, and that was how people connected.
In that regard, Penelope did find others from her own part of the world, and even her own city. Often they were very hospitable, but they were families—and blood ran thicker than country.
Every now and then, she was invited to a birthday or a name day celebration—or even just a cobbled-together get-together of wódka and pierogi, barszcz and bigos—but it was strange how quickly she’d leave. The smell of that food in the stifling air; it belonged here as much as she did.
But that wasn’t what really bothered her.
No, the one thing she truly dreaded was the sight and sound of men and women standing up, and loosening their throats, for another rendition of “Sto Lat.” They sang for home like a perfect idea—like there weren’t any reasons to leave. They called on friends and family, as if the words could bring them near.
* * *
—
But then, like I said, there was the gratitude, for other times, like New Year’s Eve, when she walked through the camp at midnight.
Somewhere close by there were fireworks; she could see them between the buildings. There were great plumes of red and green, and distant cheers, and soon she stopped and watched them.
She smiled.
She saw the workings of light in the sky, and sat on the stony road. Penelope held her arms, either side, and rocked herself, just lightly. Piekne, she thought, it’s beautiful, and this was where she would live. The thought of it made her eyes close, hotly, and talk to the simmering ground.
“Wstan,” she said. And again. “Wstan, wstan.”
Stand up.
But Penelope didn’t move.
Not yet.
But soon.
“Wake up, for Christ’s sake.”
While Penny comes in, Clay begins the process of wading, gradually, out.
On the first day, after my front porch ultimatum, he made his way to the bread bags and remaining coffee. Later, he dried his face in the bathroom, and heard me on my way out to work. I was standing over Rory:
Me in my dirty old work gear.
Rory still half asleep, half dead from the night before.
“Oi, Rory.” I shook him. “Rory!”
He tried to move, but couldn’t. “Oh, shit, Matthew, what?”
“You know what. There’s another Goddamn letterbox out there.”
“Is that all? How do you know it was me?”
“I’m not answering that. What I am saying is that you’re taking it back and reinstalling the bloody thing.”
“I don’t even know where I got it from.”
“It’s got a number on it, doesn’t it?”