Copyright © 2008 Katherine Hixson. All rights reserved. 

The sky was frustrated. The winds blew with such stress and malcontent that it seemed to be throwing a temper tantrum.

Randi could feel the sky’s venom in the back of her teeth. It whipped around her dyed blond locks and made tears run down her cheeks in the bitterness.

She hugged her arms around herself as she quickened her pace over the train tracks. Without even hesitating to look, she darted over the steel and wood. Growing up in the blue-collar town on the Ohio River, she was no stranger to the tracks and remnants of industry.

She hustled to get home. Being in the infancy of winter, the black of night was beginning to fall all too quickly and she was anxious to reach the safety of her house before the darkness set in.

Not that her little city was crime laden, but a girl with her looks was all too susceptible to wayward and leery glances.

Randi certainly was no all American Barbie, but her feminine curves and blond hair made her an easy target for the men in her town. She often thought of herself as a Cheap Beauty Queen; while certainly pretty, her face was tired and showing more age than her 29 years.

Her eyes were dark, and no longer lit up as they should. When she smiled, the gap in between her two top teeth glared out and surprised those who thought they’d be treated to a pretty smile.

"Damn, when did I get so old?" she thought to herself and she rounded the last stretch to home. "I didn’t always feel like this, did I?"

It was the town. It has taken its toll on her. A barren and infertile city, Lorraine was neither black nor white. It was gray.

A seeping gray. The kind of gray that gets into your hair and eyes, robbing the color and vitality right out of them.

The gray that wears on the soul and stiffens even the most gentle of hearts.

With a population of only 1,105, Lorraine should have been a quaint and friendly town. But instead, it was frustrated and angry, just like the sky that evening. Most of the town’s men worked at the shipping yard, or for the rail. The women, with really no jobs to be had in the local economy, cooked scraps to feed their families and took up knitting; for none of them could afford new clothes.

Randi was the exception to the rule, and she paid a price for it. She opened up her own pottery shop when she was 22, but both the men and the woman of the town resented her for it. Not only did they not shop in her store, but rumors of her "not being normal like the rest of us" floated through the town’s diners and cafes as well.

And she wasn’t normal, at first anyway. When she first opened her modest shop, she filled it with bright paintings, colorful kites and fanciful costume jewelry. She opened all the windows on mild spring afternoons and played jazz through the gauzy curtains. She laughed hard and often, and thought that maybe, just maybe, she could help to give her little town the push it needed.

But as time dragged its heavy feet through the seasons, Randi’s smile began to fade. With her once shiny hair, and her once shiny eyes.

"Dammit," she cursed, as she tripped clumsily over a broken beer bottle that littered the sidewalk. She could smell the faint odor of sulfur and smoke that plagued this industrial little town. "How did I end up here," she thought. "This ain’t no place to raise a child."

But then she felt the light kick in her belly, and painfully remembered that she too, would soon be raising a child in this gray town.

Eight months pregnant, Randi swollen with the baby inside of her, but also swollen with thoughts of regret and sadness. Regret over not moving away when she had the chance and sadness at the prospect of being stuck there forever.

Home was in sight and she quickly made her way up the small driveway and postage stamp sized yard that led her inside.

The screen door, caught in the furious wind for a moment, made a horrendous crash as it met back up with its frame. The cold followed her inside and she was hesitant to take off her worn jacket. Her shoes, however, had to go. Covered in the sludge of three day old snow and dirt from the streets, the shoes were a painful reminder of the wasteland that awaited outside the comforts of her shabby home. But at least it was home.

Randi was fortunate to own her own house, as most of the residents of Lorraine could never hope to and instead, rented from the rail company. But her house was certainly no prize; with shutters falling off and thirsty for a new paint job, it has certainly seen better days.

She lit the wood stove and began to heat up last night’s dinner of ham and bean soup. Wishing she still had a bit of corn bread left, to give the baby some nourishment, she sighed. And sat.

Her feet were tired from standing all day at the pottery shop, not that she had any customers.

She reached into the basket next to the couch and pulled out the familiar National Geographic magazine that she’s stored there for years.

Although the pages were worn and faded, just like her, it still managed to take her away. Away from Lorraine. Away from her shop. Away from that damned Johnson who promised her so much and then ran off. And away from her daddy whose hands were all too comfortable with her body ever since her momma died.

She flipped through the pages until she came to the one. There it was. Page 96. A dazzling photograph of a little mountain cabin, tucked away in some far off mountains. The Rockies? The Himalayans? The Andes? The print was too faded to tell, but Randi knew it was someplace special. And someplace that she yearned for.

The beans boiled over and she cursed and the hot water spewed off onto the rough, wooden floor. As she reached for it, she tripped and hit her hand against the pot; sending it flying. Spots of the soup landed across her cheek and she felt the pain instantly. It seared onto her skin, thrashed onto her lips and she screamed. Screamed over the pain of the burn and screamed over the anguish of dreams lost, but not forgotten.

She slumped onto the floor, in a tangled mess, and sobbed. Cries racked her body as she let out primordial yells of suffering.

Randi cried so deep that she almost didn’t feel the kick from deep in her belly. But when the baby kicked again, with more frustration, she suddenly sat up. Harder, again, the little one kicked and in that moment, Randi knew something was terribly wrong.

She clumsily reached for her jacket and shoved open the door. "CRACK," went the screen, almost as though it, too, knew something was not as it should be.

Randi stumbled in the darkness to her neighbor’s house, reached for the door knob and half threw herself inside as she collapsed in the small foyer.

"Randi? Is that you? Why, what a nice surprise," said her neighbor as smiles quickly gave way to horror seeing her crumpled on the floor.

"Randi, my god, what’s happened?"

"Jeb, call the ambulance!"

Eight hours later, Randi awoke to find her swollen belly not so swollen anymore. The doctors explained to her that she had a miscarriage, but she didn’t really understand.

Not until night fell and she was alone, again. Just like she had been for ten long, painful years.

Under the cover of darkness, Randi left the hospital. Even though she wasn’t feeling well on her legs, she was feeling strong in her soul.

She slipped out, and with only the stars as her witness, set ablaze her tiny pottery shop. She then crept along to her house, and with one flick of a well placed match, set her home up in a fiery inferno as well.

Randi Warner was done. She was done with this town. Done with this life and done with herself.

She hopped abroad a freight train, with determination to find that cabin that filled her with peace each night. Determined to find either black or white: not just gray.