birdcage | ongoing

thirty-seven| betray me

November 2010
• • •

The journey from Homestead to Fort Atkinson was a long and leisurely one, taking nearly three hours to cover the distance. Winona, feeling exhausted from the excitement of the trip, had dozed off during the initial part of the drive. Harry had kept most of the plans for their trip a delightful surprise, revealing only that they would be spending a whole week in a cabin. It was a rare occasion for Winona, as she had rarely ventured out of Homestead ever since she had moved there with her mother several years ago.

She was looking forward to enjoying herself alone with her husband. It felt like there was always something standing in their way whenever they were together, but now they were given the opportunity to just be. They didn't have to think about Joanne or Monroe, who they buried in the orchard. This was about them. Two people in love who were never allowed to be in love. Winona no longer cared about the things people would think when they saw her with Harry. What did it matter? They would never understand the extent of her attachment to him.

"Okay, we have to get the key from the rental office first. Then we'll drive up to our cabin." Harry pulled into an empty parking space and put the gear in park. He had been in a pleasant mood since they left the orchard. "Do you want to come inside with me?"

Winona nodded eagerly, her excitement palpable, but a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face as she glanced at the small brick building on the other side of the parking lot. "They won't recognize me, right?" she asked, her voice tinged with a hint of nervousness.

A warm smile played on Harry's lips as he reassured her, his fingers gently caressing her newly cropped hair. "Of course not," he said soothingly, his touch a comforting reassurance. He had been the one to insist that she cut her hair, deeming it necessary for their current plan. Her once long and dark locks used to cascade beautifully down her back, a defining feature that she had cherished. Now, her hair stopped abruptly at her shoulders, a significant change she had made at Harry's suggestion. Parting with something so deeply connected to her identity had been a struggle for Winona, but she trusted Harry's judgment and knew he had her best interests at heart.

She mimicked his actions and undid her seatbelt before climbing out of the pickup, gravitating to his side. That was where she would always belong.

Together they walked toward the rental office, the glass door closing behind them signalling their arrival. The inside smelled of nature—forest trees and moist earth. The office itself was nothing special and was actually very bland. There was a desk, a tiny waiting area, and a screen door that allowed a glance at the wrap-around porch outside.

The face of a young girl greeted them, not much older than Winona herself. She looked a bit like the girl Winona had taken the bus with to Iowa—she had already forgotten her name. It was easy to guess that she was filling in for somebody else seeing as there was a nervous air around her, as if she had never dealt with customers before.

"H-Hi!" she stammered and clasped her hands together on the surface of the desk. "Can I help you?"

Harry went straight to the point, skipping all kinds of formalities. That was the type of man he was, after all. Blunt and straightforward when it came to other people, not her. "I booked the cabin ten minutes away from here for a week. We're here for the key."

"Oh," the girl blurted, her gaze shifting between the two of them like she was unsure of what she was staring at. "Yes, my mom told me about someone stopping by today for a key. But... is it just for you or is the cabin for two people?"

Feeling vulnerable, Winona instinctively clung to Harry's arm, seeking comfort and a sense of protection. She longed to disappear into the shadows, away from the prying eyes of strangers. Despite her claims that she was unfazed by the opinions of others, the reality of being judged and misunderstood weighed heavily on her spirit. The burden of perceived immorality and shame was crushing.