Chapter Text
July 17th, 1994, 7:49pm. 99°. Off Route 16, 48 miles west of Savannah, Georgia.
“...scattered throughout the evening. Locals can expect– with torrential–”
Laudna reaches over with her right hand, flicking off the radio with a swipe of her thumb. Damned static. Returning to the steering wheel, she twists herself uncomfortably to start cranking down the driver’s side window. The glass squeaks as it retreats, filling the cabin with a wall of humid air, salty and floral. She reaches up and adjusts her rearview, eyeing herself in the mirror. Twilight chases behind her, painting the sky a vibrant orange in brilliant contrast to the deep green trees lining the road. Laudna hums to herself and smiles, distracted at the sight. She’s pulled out of her reverie when she spots a gap in the treeline, a yellow mailbox signaling the start of a gravel pull-off.
The worn tires of her professor’s truck rumble against the loose rock, the brakes groaning a little. Laudna pats the steering wheel encouragingly as she turns down the path, which extends for a couple hundred feet before widening out into a small lot surrounded by the forest. There’s enough room for about eight or so cars, with a beat-up white Subaru and a minivan already present. Laudna brings the truck to a stop close to the edge and takes the key out of the ignition. She pushes the door open with her boot, grateful for the truck’s raggedy cloth seats when she feels sweat clinging to the backs of her thighs as she stands. Her footsteps crunch into the ground as she loops behind the bed and to the passenger side, lifting her worn canvas backpack up and out through the window. Laudna runs her fingers absentmindedly over some embroidery she did on the front of the bag months ago, stopping and tutting when she feels the red thread fraying loose. She swings it over one shoulder anyway.
She turns, finally, to face her destination. Next to a healthy willow, dyed gold in the late evening sun, stands a two-story building with medium-tone wood siding, patches of moss spotting here and there. There is a sloping roof and a number of windows visible from the front, with a shaded figure in one. A stone path leads from the lot to the building, stopping at a short step. To the left of the step is a shoddily crafted plank ramp. The door is coated in chipped red paint, a dark metal sign with an emblem of a horse hanging next to it. Above the door, address letters reading ‘Faramore’s Books’ are nailed into the front edge of a small awning. Laudna breathes deeply. Near the woods, a brushstroke of white flowers catches her eye.
July 17th, 7:51pm. 99°.
…greater than the stars – that moving procession of human energy; greater than the palpitating earth and the things growing thereon. Oh! I could weep at being left by the wayside; left with the grass and the clouds and a few dumb animals. True, I feel at home in–
Imogen starts at the sudden loud cheering that emerges from the work room, paper slicing into her thumb where the two run together. She hisses, dropping her book and bringing her thumb into her mouth to soothe the bleeding. She laughs dryly as she tries to shake off the sting. She listens to the boys, highschoolers who come weekly to play some dice game, pack up their belongings as she scans the pages for one with a fresh bloodstain to place her bookmark.
“...but if you hadn’t saved that slot, I would’ve been so fucking dead. Like, you totally covered my ass with that spell,” one of them speaks excitedly as they begin to move into the front room with her counter. They’re all carrying little tied-off leather bags, papers, books, small figures. Imogen smiles at them, tapping her foot against the bar between the legs of her stool.
“Congratulations are in order, I’m sure,” she jokes to them.
“We’re heroes! Obviously,” one fires back, grinning.
“Of course. Well, listen, you boys drive safe. Radio says there’s a storm comin’ in. And y’all let me know if you have trouble with that ramp, yeah?” Imogen orders. She waves off their chorus of thank yous and see you next weeks as they exit, the chime of the door ringing out behind them.
She stands from the stool, shoes touching the hardwood with a satisfying sound. She cranes her neck to eye the clock that hangs on the wall above her, then reaches for the pad of check paper that she writes her to-do lists on. Besides regular closing tasks, all Imogen has to worry about tonight is a new collection in from an estate sale. Worry’s the wrong word, since she looks forward to those finds more than anything else at her job. Now that the only visitors in the store have left, Imogen begins to pile up the boxes of books and documents wherever there’s space at the foot of the counter.
July 17th, 8:02pm. 99°.
Laudna flicks her butterfly knife closed, pressing the locked blade tight against her hip before dropping it into her bag along with a few stems of freshly cut flowers. She wipes her hands against her pants as she stands from her kneeling position in the grass, turning her head as she hears voices coming from the doorway of the bookstore. Laudna retreats a bit into the trees, not wanting to startle the group of boys that has just emerged from within.
She watches from the shade as they gather together to help one of them, in a wheelchair, down that ramp she had spotted and into the minivan in the lot. When they seem settled in their car, Laudna steps out and begins walking towards the store. In her peripheral, she sees the boy in the driver’s seat jump in shock and hit his companion next to him in the arm. Laudna stops, grins widely at them while waving, then continues on without looking back. The sound of their van peeling out on the gravel harmonizes with the screeching cicadas and black crickets.
Heading up to the building, Laudna takes the ramp instead of the step. She holds her arms out from her sides, one foot in front of the other as the short plank wobbles and bounces under her. When she reaches the door, she lets one hand rest on the worn iron handle while she runs her fingers over the gaps in the red paint. Some of it flakes off as she touches it. Laudna’s eyes are trained on the paint chips fluttering to the ground as she gently pushes the door open, a quiet, tinny chime ringing out into the building.
“Hey, come on in. I’ll be right with you,” a voice drawls out as Laudna steps in backwards, turned to ensure the door doesn’t close harshly. Laudna thinks it sounds soft and pretty, shimmering with the door’s bell.
When Laudna faces forward, she sees a small counter about twenty feet from the door. It’s scattered with papers, tools, writing utensils, little tchotchkes. In front of the counter and stretching to the side of it is a pile of loosely stacked lidded cardboard boxes and wooden crates. There’s a window behind the counter, about half open. The very last dregs of sunlight still stream in, highlighting dust floating through the air. Leaning against the back wall is a box fan, rattling and humming dully.
Behind the counter, a young woman stands, slightly hunched and bent at the waist as she fusses with something in front of her. She’s shorter than Laudna by a good bit, with thick, wavy hair tumbling just past her shoulders and half tied back. She has on loose, maybe acid washed light blue jeans. She’s wearing a tight white t-shirt with yellow sleeves. It’s cropped at the bottom, revealing a black leather belt and, with the way she’s positioned, a bit of the skin on her lower back. Laudna stares at the backs of her arms, focused on the bend of her elbow as she fiddles with whatever it is she has. She’s messing with something plastic, Laudna can tell by the sound. There’s a wall clock ticking quietly. Laudna can tell by that sound that she’s been watching this woman for thirteen, fourteen, fifteen seconds. She sniffs and averts her eyes, finally looking at her surroundings.
The bookstore is massively cluttered. Shelves span this room floor to ceiling, marked with paper tags delineating genre. Laudna walks up to one, reading its contents. Gothic horror, organized not by title or author but instead seemingly by chronology of release. On the ground next to the shelves are stacked towers of loose books, chaotically placed. Any wall space not taken up by shelving is filled with art; Laudna wanders around the room a bit and spots local flyers, polaroid pictures, concert tickets and posters, crayon scribblings clearly by children, and some professional framed pieces. The biggest item by far is a roadmap, secured to the wall behind the counter with tape. There’s a gap in the shelves with a doorway to another room and a staircase in the back left corner by the counter. The flooring is wood, but a large, mostly dark red ornate rug covers much of it. The whole place smells of old paper, not quite mildewed but heading there. It’s just as hot inside as it is outside, but it feels much less oppressively so. The whole affair is so comforting that Laudna could cry.
In the same moment Laudna turns back to the woman, there’s a singular, muted click sound. She watches her gently clench her fist in triumph, muttering something under her breath. Whatever she whispers is drowned out by the opening notes of The Cranberries’ “I Still Do” playing quietly and sounding far away. The woman behind the counter finally turns. Her hair is a bit messy, strands coming loose from where it’s tied, dangling in her face and shifting in the breeze of the fan. She’s a little sweaty, her cheeks a little red. Probably from the heat, Laudna thinks. There’s a thin silver chain visible by the neckline of her shirt. Her skin is tanned, freckles dotting around the bridge of her nose. She brings one hand up to push the hair from her eyes, smiling politely at Laudna. Laudna catches her breath, then opens her mouth to speak.
July 17th, 8:05pm. 98°.
“Fuckin’ piece of shit, that’s right,” Imogen breathes out as she finally gets the cassette deck to work. She had meant to put on the B-side, but she’s been ignoring this guest for so long she figures she just has to let it go. Her fingers are grimy with dust from the old machine. She wipes them on her jeans, shifting on her heel to greet the person who had entered.
Imogen has to pause. She runs a hand through her hair as an excuse to cover her face for a second. She hopes she’s not blushing while she tries her best to put on her normal girl customer service smile. The woman, about five feet in front of her, is tall and thin, angular to the point where she’s almost gaunt. Her posture is straight, but she wears a thin, loose-fitting black t-shirt and dark, slouchy linen pants that make her form less imposing. The pants are tapered, tightening around the ankle where they meet her maroon boots. Imogen thinks she can see grass stains on the knees, but it’s difficult to tell with the color of the fabric. She has a backpack slung over one shoulder and her hair is tied back in a loose bun, dark with a pronounced white streak near the part. Her ears are decorated with gold: some piercings, a cuff, and a chain. Mostly, Imogen is struck by the brightness in her dark eyes, her sharp, raised eyebrows, and the pointiness of her teeth as she smiles. And then she speaks.
“Isn’t that supposed to be bad for the books?” she asks, reaching out a hand and gesturing somewhere behind Imogen.
What is that accent? British? Jesus Christ. Imogen hesitates for a second, then shakes her head.
“Huh– sorry, what do you mean?”
The woman steps forward until she’s just a foot in front of the counter.
“The window. Keeping it open, what with the humidity,” she clarifies. Her smile doesn’t waver, an amused glint in her eyes.
Imogen turns her head to the side, glancing over her shoulder at the window behind her. Outside, she sees a faded green pick-up truck. She eyes the small wooden dowel she has to use to prop the window open, since Faramore never fixed the latches after that windstorm a few years back. Imogen clenches her jaw.
“Y’know, you’ve got a point,” she starts, smiling back at the stranger. “I’m sure there’s some science or somethin’ about how this affects the paper and such, but maybe if our owner would go ahead and cough up for an air conditioner I wouldn’t have to do this anymore.”
The stranger laughs a little, musically. Imogen stares at her chin.
“Ah, I get it. Do you think he might even spring for a better tape deck? Or, heavens forbid, maybe you could catch up to the rest of the world and get a CD player?” she jokes, leaning in as she speaks.
Imogen places a hand on her chest in mock offense. “You mean my state of the art sound system? Please, I couldn’t ask for anythin’ better than that.”
“Oh, wow,” the woman mutters under her breath, her smile softening and her eyes flitting down to the countertop. Imogen stares at the bridge of her nose. The clock ticks through a few beats of silence. Then, at the same time:
“Well, what can I do for–”
“I suppose I should introduce–”
There’s a pause after they both speak at once. Imogen stares (up, slightly) at the other woman and chuckles. The stranger’s smile widens. When they both open their mouths in time to try again, she covers that smile with one hand and waves Imogen on with the other.
“No, please, I was just gonna say, y’know, ladies first,” Imogen says, copying the woman’s hand motions.
The woman tilts her head back slightly, raising her eyebrows. Then, she steps forward once more and leans in, letting her elbows rest on the counter and her delicate hands drape loosely over one another. Imogen’s instinct is to shuffle back a foot to maintain a reasonable distance. She ignores it.
“My name is Laudna,” she says, offering one of those hands out casually to Imogen. Imogen eyes it for a second, then takes it in one of her own. This Laudna’s skin is a little cool to the touch, despite the sticky heat of the summer night. It’s so refreshing that Imogen leans into it, seeking as many points of contact as possible and swiftly bringing up her other hand in a way that she hopes seems natural to shake it with both.
“Imogen. Pleasure to meet you.”
Imogen feels Laudna’s grip on her one palm tighten slightly.
“Oh, Imogen, lovely! Is that a family name?” Laudna questions.
“Not as far as I know, I don’t think,” Imogen answers, taken aback.
“Well, either way, it suits you beautifully.”
Imogen feels her neck flush slightly. Nothing she can do about that. She’s staring at Laudna’s face a little blankly. She watches her eyes flit down to their hands on the countertop. Imogen quickly releases the handshake (a world record breaking length, certainly), dropping her hands and brushing her palms against her thighs.
“Right, well, what brings you around here, then?”
July 17th, 8:09pm. 98°.
Laudna presses her now empty hands into the countertop, pushing her palms into it a bit to relieve that bothersome tingling feeling she has. She straightens herself back up.
“I’m a graduate student. I’m working in the city with a professor at the university, doing some research. She recommended this place to me. Said it’s got the best selection of local history in the area! And the kindest staff, too,” Laudna explains. That last part isn’t an embellishment. Sumal really did say that. When this Imogen at the counter swallows and shakes her head, Laudna wonders why she told her.
“High praise. I’ll do the best I can to help,” Imogen responds. “What are you lookin’ for?”
Laudna taps her chin. “I’m seeking out primary source documents. Census records, periodicals, autobiographies, maybe regular biographies, on individuals in the state from the ‘60s up to now,” Laudna requests. She wants to say more. She loves explaining her work to people, but she doesn’t want to give Imogen too much to handle or scare her off with the technicals.
“Easy enough. What’s your research on?” Imogen asks. Well, nevermind, then.
“...I’m an anthropologist,” Laudna offers. “Are you familiar?”
“I do believe I am,” Imogen answers with a smile. Alright. “I never went off to school myself, but I’m thinkin’ I may know that professor you were talkin’ about. She studies the same thing, yeah? She introduced herself to me once.”
Laudna claps her hands together.
“Yes, she does! She’s helping me guide my thesis research.”
“Well, you look like you’re dyin’ to tell me all about it. Go ahead, then,” Imogen answers, her smile widening. Laudna shakes her head rapidly.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly. I don’t want to bore you with the–”
“It’s my whole job. Not only is it cool to me, but it’ll also help me find you what you need,” Imogen soothes. Laudna watches her press the front of her body into her side of the counter, hip bones touching the edge. Laudna swallows, scratching the inside of her wrist.
“If you’re sure,” she replies.
Imogen nods. It’s encouraging.
“Right, so, I study psychological anthropology,” Laudna begins. Almost immediately, she’s pacing the carpeted floor. “That’s the really broad subfield. For me, my interest is in how we connect place and identity.” She moves her hands as she speaks, fingers spread widely then narrowing into a pinch. “What we’ve seen in the last three decades or so, and of course, when I say ‘we’ I mean the field, not me specifically, I’m not that old or immortal or anything–”
Imogen laughs, and Laudna looks over to her for the first time in a few moments. She’s leaning forward on the counter, chin propped up on the back of her hands.
“Oh, don’t laugh! I just get so excited, and, hey, you asked me to–” Laudna cries out.
“Please, keep goin’. I’m not laughin’ at you, promise,” Imogen urges, still smiling.
Laudna breathes deeply. Imogen grabs a pencil and motions for her to continue, beginning to write something on a check pad near her.
“Right, anyway, we’ve seen this trend towards private and independent movement, sort of like a globalist diaspora. Especially here. Western society has always embraced individualism, so I’m looking to understand outlying phenomena. We often think of young people leaving home to pursue dreams and goals against the wishes of their family, or at least in disregard of them. But that’s not true everywhere,” Laudna pauses briefly, looking to Imogen. “And… I suppose I should get to the point, yes?”
Imogen’s eyes are trained on Laudna. The pencil is pressed to her lips. She raises her eyebrows.
“No need to rush things,” she replies, her voice slow and thick. Laudna feels sweat on her palms. She stares at Imogen, not sure she’ll take that advice.
“Ah, sure. Well, essentially, the south has resisted this trend somewhat more than other areas of the country. I began my research in New York, which is obviously so very different. Now, I’m looking for an explanation why. What elements of southern socio-culture make it easier for people to stay close to home? Or, should I instead phrase it as what makes it harder to leave? That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” Laudna finishes, a little breathless.
Imogen shakes her head and whistles. “Gosh, it’s a great pitch. If I were some bigwig academic I’d fund you, for sure,” she compliments. To Laudna, it’s the kindest and most understanding feedback she could’ve given. “Hey, can I ask you somethin’ kind of personal, though?” Imogen presses.
“I wish you would,” Laudna says, nodding rapidly. What?
“Well, you said you were in New York. And I can tell by your accent that you’re not from around here…” she starts slowly.
“And I can tell by yours that you are,” Laudna interjects.
“Yeah? Well, I’ll be,” Imogen responds jokingly, putting it on extra thick for a second. Laudna really likes it. “Anyway, I guess I’m tryin’ to ask why you’re so interested in all… this,” she finishes, waving her hands around a little.
Laudna nods, humming in understanding of the question. She hesitates on her answer. She doesn’t know how much of herself to share.
“I guess it might seem a bit strange, yes? But, it really is quite standard for people in this line of work to go outside of their native cultures for their research,” she explains.
“No, I know that. Just, why this? Specifically,” Imogen clarifies. She has a sort of inscrutable look on her face. Laudna wants to know everything. She figures she could start by going first.
“Sparing you the more undesirable details,” Laudna begins, “I very much separated myself from my family.” She finds herself speaking slower, scratching the back of her head as she observes Imogen’s reactions. “I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out how I feel about that, and also how I should feel about that. It’s a slightly reflexive project for me,” she says, watching Imogen nod her head. “I find it comforting to know that opinions on this matter are so widely varied. Choices that may seem like they were one hundred percent right or one hundred percent wrong become something much more holistic once you understand other perspectives,” Laudna philosophizes, finishing with her voice a bit quiet.
At the end, Imogen smiles tightly, her gaze slightly unfocused. It’s much different than anything Laudna has seen from her in this short time. Laudna watches her chest rise and fall with a sigh. Then, Imogen gently slaps her hands against the surface of the counter. She looks up towards Laudna, a more genuine smile blossoming across her face.
“Well, I took some notes while you were teachin’ me,” she says, gathering her paper up. “I think I know where we can start. Why don’t you follow me?”