Curdle Creek: Moving On

Curdle Creek: Moving On

Yvonne Battle-Felton

The creek smells of death. The whole town does really but at the creek, where the red water overflows the low banks leaving fish, shells, and bones behind, the stench is strongest. Especially on a day like today when the wind refuses to blow. On Moving On and Birth Days, the wind avoids this town like anyone with good sense would.

Although the signs warn that ‘trespassers will be shot’ and to ‘turn, turn away and don’t come back,’ Mae and I ignore the warnings, trek through the woods and settle, toes skimming the water’s edge, along the bank. It’s Moving On Day. We won’t be missed. We’re 15. Just shy of our first kiss, our first sip of liquor, and our first vote.

‘What do you think it feels like, Riley?’ Mae asks.

She buries her fingers into the moist soil, closes her eyes like she’s praying. I’m lying on a soft mound of dirt. The earth, freshly scattered, is cool on my skin. So as not to have to look at her, I look up too.

‘It hurts.’

‘A lot?’

‘Only for a little while,’ I say. I’m holding my breath. Lying hurts my chest.

‘Promise me when it’s my time you’ll be the one to do it.’

‘I can’t promise that, you know I can’t,’ I say.

‘I would do it for you,’ she says. ‘Like that.’

The snap of her fingers makes me jump. ‘I know you would.’

Of course she would do it. They all would. Mae would kill me if she had to; even if the town didn’t make her. The town of Curdle Creek has a strict population policy: One in, one out. It’s everyone’s responsibility to uphold it. It’s the law.

‘You think that’s why Blanche’s father moved on? So she wouldn’t have to?’ she asks.

‘If Blanche is selfish enough to have twins, she should have been the one to move on.’

‘You sound just like your mother when you say that.’

We both smile. Mae’s mother had the good grace to move on years ago. Right before Mae’s father chose a new wife. Mother says she wouldn’t do that for me. Well, she didn’t say it exactly. She said: I wouldn’t do that for nobody on God’s Green Earth. Mother’s a Timer. When it’s your time to go, you go, she says. I imagine she feels that way when it’s her time too. I sure do. I wouldn’t switch places with her neither. Please, Lord, don’t let me turn 16 here.

‘I heard soon as we turn 16,” Mae says like she’s reading my mind, “we have to pick three names of people we recommend get Moved On. I promise not to write yours.’

I must have rolled my eyes.

‘It’s true,’ she continues. ‘Drop the names straight into a hat, official-like.’

I’m laughing and I can’t stop. Even though I know she could just as easily write my name down as any other, I can’t hold it in. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I say. ‘That’s so 1940s. Now, it’s all done through email. You email a name, the committee votes, and by morning, there’s a knock at the door. If you’re the one doing the knocking, you’re the mover. If you’re the one answering the door, you’re the one moving on. I promise not to write your name either.’ My chest tightens.

That’s the last time I see Mae until the knock on the door.

It’s nearly dawn. When the sun comes up, it will be Moving On Day. Already. Like they didn’t just now finish all the burials from the last one. A bunch of us set up a petition. It didn’t seem right to start talking about who was moving on with the Moved On not even gone yet. The Committee said now was not the time to reinvent the wheel. Like they hadn’t been changing, tweaking, and bending the rules ever since The Beginning. If the system worked like it was intended to, there wouldn’t be as many of them Timers left in the first place. Can’t tell me there’s no rule bending going on.

We weren’t trying to get them to stop it, even though, despite what the Timers say, Curdle Creek’s probably the only town still doing it. We just wanted them to do it properly, with the Sending Off. What’s the point in moving on if you don’t get a proper send off? They said with so many births, the Outgoing needed to be nearly double the number of the year before which was higher than the year before that. Soon there won’t be hardly nobody left.

Seems like just yesterday Mother was telling me to wipe the dust off my shoes like I had good sense. She would have said a whole lot more about it if it wasn’t for the knock. She paused for a minute, lost her train of thought. Then, she took a breath, swallowed, and kept right on talking like she didn’t hear it. The knocking got louder. Mother’s voice did too. It was like they were arguing: knock, knock, like I was saying, knock, knock, this system, knock, knock, works to keep the good people good. She was babbling. Telling me all the things she hadn’t ever bothered to say. All the things I had wished she had told me when I was young enough to believe it. Like, why we moved to this damned town in the middle of nowhere and why we stayed. I half expected her to tell me she loved me. No one in Curdle Creek ever says that. When she’d run out of useful things to say: what bills needed paying, how long meat can last before going rancid, how to load a rifle, she started talking nonsense: how often to dust the China, mow the yard, pay Remembrance.

I offered to get the door.

That would have almost killed her. Would have shamed her near enough to death to do the job. It’s meant to be the Mover answering the door, inviting death in for a cup of tea. Once she gathered herself, she opened it but the apologies I know she had meant to spill wouldn’t come out. She didn’t say nothing. Instead of inviting The Knocker in, she stepped outside defiant. It was unheard of, especially for a Timer, not to stick to the ritual of it all. The knock, the invitation, the tea, the pronouncement, then, before sundown, the stones.

I didn’t attend the ceremony. I don’t care what none of them say, there’s nothing touching about being there. There’s no comfort in knowing who cast the first stone, or the last. The last thing Mother would have wanted was me hearing her change her mind. They all did. Nothing changed a Timer to a What-ifer faster than a stone. Town would say I was too young to know better, could be forgiven missing this first one since it was Mother and all. But next year, when I was a full-grown adult, I would need to show my allegiance. Without the taint I could not be trusted. Without the stain of blood on my hands 9

I was an outsider. They imagined me home, baking, sewing, cleaning, studying, and preparing for the husband they would select for me in one year to come home.

I spared a moment for Mother, of course I did. And in that moment I cracked her password and went online. It was forbidden for anyone other than the Timers to use the Internet. After fifteen minutes, I knew why. The ritual is what makes us civilized. We’re the best town in the world. Other people wish they could live like us. Every town has its sacrifice. All lies. It took 24-hours for Mother’s password to be deactivated. I found out more than I needed to and told no one. Not even Mae. For a year after Mother’s Moving On, I went to school, did my work, learned the rituals, and waited.

By the time the sun rises, I’ll be gone. I slip on my jeans, button my blouse, and fluff out my fro. Ready in 10? I text Jordan. He responds with the closest thing to love he’ll commit to: a double-plot grave emoji. He’ll wait for me by the creek for an hour before figuring out I’m not coming. He’ll fume for a bit, walk to my house to see what’s keeping me, probably all while calling me names. He’ll waste another ten minutes huffing and when that doesn’t work, when I don’t sense his annoyance, he’ll knock on the door ready to tell me how inconsiderate I’ve been to keep him waiting on today of all days. My first Moving On Day. The day that makes me a woman, one of them. When he realizes I’m gone, he’ll ring the bell. I won’t miss him.

I triple-check the backpack. Money, sneakers, a dress or two, and a hand-drawn map. I leave behind anything that would be missed: Mother’s computer, books, winter clothes, or tracked: my phone and any jewellery. I’m walking through the house for the last time when I hear the knock. So soon? My hands are slippery, shaking. I grab the bag and fling open the door.

“Ready?” Mae asks.

She doesn’t need to. I’m already on the porch locking up. I slip the key under the mat so whoever lives here next has one less thing to worry about.

“Ready,” I say.

Mae takes my hand. Hers is shaking too. “This is it.” 10

By the time we reach the Welcome to Curdle Creek, Population 1,668 sign we’re nearly skipping. “Someone should fix that,” I say. We don’t bother to. We don’t slow down, don’t linger. That will be another lie this place can keep or not.