Chapter 4 - The Construction of June
The convent at St. Jude’s sat on a limestone bluff above the northern orchard country, forty miles from the blackened scar of the Pine Ridge woods. It was a place where the wind smelled of rotting apples and damp shale, a cold, clean air that didn't carry a single atom of soot.
For twelve weeks, Natalie learned the geography of a new skin. She walked the stone perimeter wall every morning at six, her hands resting on the top of her stomach, which had grown large, hard, and perfectly round. Her slippers were gone, replaced by a pair of heavy, brown leather boots that the sisters had found in the donation bins—boots with thick rubber soles that left deep, square impressions in the orchard mud.
She did not look at the news. She did not look at the internet. Every three days, Sister Beatrice would bring her a copy of the regional ledger with the local real estate advertisements neatly cut out with a pair of kitchen scissors. Natalie didn't need to see the empty spaces to know whose name had been removed from the paper.
On a Tuesday in late November, while the first hard frost was turning the apple branches into grey glass, June Keene was born.
She did not arrive with the long, exhausting hesitation of most first children. She came in three hours of violent, rhythmic contractions that felt less like labor and more like an eviction. When Dr. Vance lifted her into the light of the delivery room, the girl didn't cry immediately; she simply opened her mouth, drew in a long, rattling breath of the sterile hospital air, and let out a single, piercing shriek that sounded exactly like the air horn on the ridge.
"Look at her," the nurse whispered, laying the child against Natalie’s wet chest.
June was small—barely five pounds—with a crop of thick, black hair that stood straight up from her scalp and two dark, serious eyes that seemed entirely too focused for a newborn. She didn't look like Brett. She didn't have that soft, blue-eyed symmetry that made people trust him with their life savings. She looked like the stone wall at the edge of the orchard—grey, hard, and built to withstand the ice.
"Hello, June," Natalie said. She reached down with her thumb, her nail clean now, and pressed it into the tiny, wet palm of her daughter’s hand. The child’s fingers closed around her skin with a force that made Natalie gasp—a grip that felt like it would never let go, no matter how hard the wind blew against the glass.
Three weeks later, Natalie sat in the small office of the county legal aid clinic, a blue plastic folder resting on her knees. Across from her sat a young attorney named Sarah Vance—Dr. Vance’s niece—a woman with the same grey hair and the same total lack of patience for the legal fictions of powerful men.
"The corporate filings for the Pine Ridge Relief Fund were completed six weeks ago, Natalie," Sarah said, sliding a stack of printed documents across the desk. "Brett Keene is listed as the managing director. His mother, Eleanor, is the treasurer. And Tessa Vale is listed as the executive secretary."
Natalie looked at the names. They looked small on the white paper, like insects caught in amber.
"They’ve raised four hundred thousand dollars from the valley businesses," Sarah continued, her pencil tapping against the wood. "They’re holding the grand gala on Friday night at the St. Regis ballroom. The governor is scheduled to present Brett with a civic commendation for his work during the evacuation."
Natalie looked down at June, who was asleep in her car seat at her feet, her small mouth moving as she dreamed of nothing at all.
"Do you have the audio from the dispatch line?" Natalie asked.
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Sarah reached into her drawer and pulled out a small, silver flash drive. "The state attorney’s office cleared the release yesterday morning. It’s unedited, Natalie. You can hear his engine. You can hear his voice before the window goes up."
Natalie picked up the drive. It felt cold against her palm, no heavier than a single pine needle from the ridge. "Get me a ticket to the ballroom, Sarah," she said. "I want to see my husband receive his medal."
