John
When John was a child, life had seemed simple. A small house in the country, plenty of space for a rambunctious little boy to run, the big scary city seemingly worlds apart, though in reality it was less than an hour away. His dad would sit on the back porch, strumming guitar and smiling as he watched his young son run around the yard. John didn't understand poverty, hunger, or hardship. He didn't know that their house was more than a little ramshackle, that his mother skipped meals so that he could eat, or that his dad made the exhausting commute into the city every single day, working his hands to the bone in order to provide for his family.
He was still young when they moved into the city. Gone were his big back yard and wide-open skies, replaced with monstrously tall buildings and pierced with occasional gun shots in the distance. The times when they weren't so far in the distance, that's when his mother would huddle with him on the floor of the bathroom, telling him stories about when she was a kid in this same city, and how his father was making something of himself. John still didn't understand why his father was around less often, why they had to play hide and seek when the "fireworks" went off outside their house, or why his dad seemed to constantly look over his shoulder on the rare occasion they were able to go out together as a family.
After Faith was born, after they had moved out of the slums and into their Virginia Highlands home, as he got older and more mature, he began to look back and understand. By this point, his father had lost his carefree spirit. They had the house, the cars, the reputation. The kids went to the fancy school, wore the best clothes, the memories of their former life just a shadow in the past. But they weren't happy, and as a teenager John wondered if it were really worth it, considering what his dad had given up getting there.
Then his father died. That's when John knew it wasn't worth it, but at that point it was too late. The young man whose parents had tried to shelter him from the monsters of the world was suddenly thrust head first into the fray.
How do you explain that to someone who is already prejudiced against you? That was the problem he faced now, in the music room with Maggie and her family. He wanted to make her understand but wondered if that were even possible. He had some idea of the preconceived notions she harbored against him, remembering that fateful night at The Mill, when she saw the edges of his darkness before seeing any of the light.
"I would say I do know something about hardship," he began quietly. "When my father died suddenly twelve years ago, I had to grow up very quickly. I left school, got my GED, and worked day and night to take care of my family. When I was old enough, I joined the army. It was the only way I could think to build a future for myself. If I was lucky at all, it would be because my mother fought just as hard to keep us afloat, instead of succumbing to the grief of losing her husband, all this with a young daughter that demanded her attention. After years of hard work and sacrifices, I can finally keep my family comfortable and repay my mom for everything she's done for us. So, Maggie, while I count my blessings every day, I don't think luck or fortune had very much to do with it."
Maggie looked down at her hands as he spoke, her righteous fury seemingly quelled by his words. When she finally raised her eyes to meet his gaze, he saw something in them that he didn't understand. Some anger was still there, for sure, but also confusion, and something that looked like fear.
Since John had stopped speaking, it seemed like all the air had been sucked out of the room. He stood, breaking the spell, and turned towards Mr. Hale. "I didn't realize how late it is, I'm sorry if I've kept you up, Richard."
"Of course not, John, it's been a pleasure having you here," he responded, shaking John's hand and patting him on the back with affection, trying to shake off some of the awkwardness of this exchange.
Directing his attention back to Maggie, John gave a small smile, "Come on Maggie, I'd be proud if we could part on friendly terms." He tried dialing up the southern charm, hoping some lightness would bring a smile back to her face. "I reckon we could both do well to try and be more understanding of our vastly different backgrounds. Maybe we could even have a more civil conversation, god willing and the creek don't rise." As they shook hands, he couldn't resist clasping her hand in both of his for a moment, before she sharply pulled away.
"I reckon you're right," Maggie said with a slightly mocking tone. He was taken aback by the sudden resurgence of her hostility.
The desire to escape was once again creeping in, snaking its way into his lungs, making it difficult to take a deep breath. So, John turned back to Mr. and Mrs. Hale. "Thank you again for your hospitality, I really appreciate it. Y'all have a good one." With that he left the room, before Mr. Hale could move to walk him to the door.
Once in his car, he sat for a moment, mind reeling with the strange events of the evening. He could feel his pulse pounding in his throat as he struggled to regain his composure. Why was it that every time he thought he was making headway with that exceptionally disagreeable girl, she did something that pushed them back? More importantly, why did he care so much when she was so infuriating? These questions kept circling in his mind as he drove home, her scornful words echoing in his ears.
Maggie
Her hands were suddenly the most interesting thing in the world as she listened to his explanation. She couldn't bring herself to face him as he laid his story at her feet, knowing that all the while that he was looking intently at her, trying to gauge her reaction. And somehow, she knew that what he spoke wasn't even the whole story. There was something underneath his voice, dark and buried, something worse that he hadn't let out.
At the same time, she was still furious. Who was he to make her feel sorry for him, when he had everything he needed in life? Did it matter whether you earned your privilege or if it were handed to you? He was still better than the vast majority. None of what he said changed the fact that she'd seen him beat a man to the floor, or that he and his colleagues were on the cusp of creating an industry disaster. Then again, listening to the sound of his voice, she could imagine a scared young man making tough life choices much too early. It was commendable that he made so many sacrifices at such a young age, and apparent that he took his responsibilities seriously. He would do anything for his family and the people he cared for. Maggie wondered what it would be like to be loved like that.
With this disturbing turn of thought, she finally looked up at John and caught his gaze. In the moments their eyes were locked, she had the absurd notion that he could read her mind. She wasn't an open book to most people, and it bothered her immensely that this random man- practically a stranger- seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. Her world was suddenly a nightmare, the kind where you're standing in front of the class in your underwear. She was naked and exposed, a feeling she wasn't used to and didn't appreciate one bit.
The moment seemed to stretch into eternity as she sat frozen, pinned by the icy blue gaze of her captor. Then John stood up, snapping the bond that had tethered them, and she wondered what he had seen in her that made him pull away. An uncomfortable tension was winding around her chest, a strange insecurity that she wasn't used to feeling. Maggie, ever confident and sure of herself. Independent, proud, and self-sufficient, but deep inside she wanted his approval— and it seemed she had been found lacking in his eyes. Another foreign feeling, adding to the turmoil.
She struggled to quiet the roaring in her ears while he father and John said their goodbyes. Somehow managing to stand without trembling, she rallied herself for this final interaction, desperate for him to leave so she could retreat to the safety and privacy of her room. But his smile, his light and joking tone, the perfect picture of the southern gentleman she knew he wasn't, the warmth of his hands gently clasping hers— it was all too much.
Instantly regret washed over her, the sound of her voice harsh even to her own ears. John pulled back as if he'd been slapped, confusion flashing in his eyes briefly before he turned away. It was a low blow, she knew. If they'd been friends, she could have passed it off as a joke, but in the context of their interactions that night, it was downright malicious. Maggie was more disappointed in herself than anyone else in the room was, since she had been making a concerted effort to accustom herself to the strong accents she encountered. She was getting better at deciphering the meaning of some of the more colorful turn of phrases, but still had trouble with the occasional strong Appalachian drawl of the mountain folk.
All that effort seemed worthless now, if her first instinct was to use their differences as a weapon. After John left in a hurry, Maggie's father turned his disappointed gaze towards her. "Margaret," he said quietly. She knew he was serious when he used her real name, "What has gotten into you? I'm afraid you really hurt John's feelings, making fun of him like that. After he was trying to be more agreeable, too."
Maggie struggled to come up with some explanation for her actions, when she didn't fully understand them herself. "I'm sorry, dad. It's been hard getting used to the manners and culture down here. I'm tired; it's so hot here, the humidity is so draining." Weak excuses, and they all knew it. She collapsed back into her chair with a sigh, "I guess I misread the situation… back home, with my friends, we tease each other all the time. It's like living in a foreign country, everyone is so different."
Nodding sympathetically, Mrs. Hale chimed in, "And for him to tell us all about his family like that, it made me very uncomfortable. So awkward! Who knows what happened to his father, dying so suddenly as he said. It must have been a tragic car accident or something of that sort." She shuddered delicately, glancing at Dixie who was nodding in agreement.
Before Dixie could say anything regarding the awkward situation, Mr. Hale quickly said, "I'm afraid it was far worse than that, Maria. According to Bell, John's father got mixed up with the wrong sort of people through his business ventures. He was shot during a… disagreement with these characters, a dispute about money or some product I believe. John worked so hard all these years in part to repay his father's debts to the, well, let's call them the leaders of the group he had slighted. It was important for the safety of Mrs. Thornton and Faith that it be paid in full, and for John to be able to separate his family from the, you know, unsavory organization."
It was obvious that he was trying to sugarcoat the story to protect her perceived innocence. As if she hadn't spent years living in a city with its own history of organized crime and gangs. While she tried to decipher the meaning behind her father's vague story, she was overwhelmed by the implications. It made her sick to think of how awful and frightening that must have been, for a teenage boy no less. She stood up quickly, suddenly needing to retreat to the privacy of her own room.
Swaying a bit as she stood, she reached out for the wall to steady herself. "Magpie?" her father asked with concern, noticing her sudden pallor.
Somehow, she was able to start for the door without stumbling. "He sounds like a brave young man," she said to her father, "I'm sorry if I offended him. Like I said, I'm very tired, so I'm going to bed. Goodnight." With that she left the room, heading towards her bed with renewed urgency, leaving her parents and aunt Dixie staring after her with varying degrees of confusion written on their brows.