their children. Beamer waved and held the door open for them.
“Well?” Sue said.
Beamer shrugged. “Read it yourself.” They went inside.
Beamer busied herself with store tasks while the Woodies read the story. She waited on a few customers and played two hands of crazy eights with Alissa, who lost both and retreated unhappily to her corner. Jenny arrived and was greeted by a loud, indignant, and loving chorus.
Maud put her arm around Jenny and read aloud from the paper. “This is rich: ‘A beguiling woman with a sometimes frightening intensity…’!”
Jenny took the paper. “This is my favorite part. I think she has just captured Moonbeam: This girl-woman—’”
Beamer groaned.
“‘—whose eyes shift in an instant from childish innocence to jaded mistrust…’”
The phone rang. Mrs. Flynn answered, then handed it to Beamer. “It’s Andy.”
“Andy, it’s nine o’clock,” Beamer said. “Isn’t that a little early for phone calls?”
“Jaded mistrust!” he said. “That’s it! That’s exactly what I see every time I make a move on you.” Beamer hung up without responding. He deserved worse. The Woodies were all babbling, passing the article around, enjoying themselves and enjoying reading about themselves. They all deserved worse. Beamer felt as sullen as Alissa. She had only herself to blame, she thought for the millionth time. But as she watched them—they had by then been joined by half a dozen others—she understood why she had wanted to tell her story to Rae Ramone: she wanted the world to know what she was up against.
Daniel put down the newspaper he had been reading. “I’m not so sure,” he said slowly, “that this is a flattering portrait of us.”
Smart boy, thought Beamer.
“Why do you feel that?” asked Jenny.
“Well, this bit on the money.” Daniel traced his finger down the newsprint until he found the paragraph. “Here we go:
‘The alternative economic philosophy that inspired the foundation of the commune manifested itself in an old-fashioned capitalistic result: money. After several years of steadily increasing sales and profits, the commune’s two businesses, Better Butter, Inc. and Nature’s Nursery, were sold. Each venture was reported to have netted the commune over $300,000. But the biggest prize was to come. Almost twelve years after the first building was raised and the first well sunk, the group voted to disband. Woodlands was sold to a Chicago real estate developer for nearly half a million dollars. “Faith into Action” was now a credo that each of the ex-commune members could chant all the way to the bank.’”
Daniel slapped the paper. “She makes it sound like we got rich! Like we sold out at the first sign of good money. What she doesn’t say clearly is that the money was split into nineteen shares.” He refolded the paper neatly. “My plumbing customers will really be slow to pay now.” He smiled at Beamer. “But it is a lovely portrait of you, Merry Moonbeam. Maybe you should autograph some of the papers for the customers. I’m sure they’d love it. Charge for the autograph; it’s an old-fashioned capitalistic thing to do.”
Beamer was saved from responding by her father’s appearance. “Didn’t I just send all of you home?” he said to nobody in particular. No one answered. He sat on the counter, drank coffee, and read the article. Beamer stood next to him. He made a few noises, and twice looked questioningly at his daughter. Jenny leaned over his shoulder and pointed. “I thought that was especially insightful of our Moonbeam,” she said. Mr. Flynn pushed her hand away and continued reading. At last he finished.
“Well,” he said, “it’s accurate, but it’s all wrong.”
“What do you mean, Dad?” asked Beamer. “I tried to get everything straight.”
“Oh, not anything you said, Bea. That’s all fine. The reporter’s understanding of it. She just didn’t understand anything she was hearing.” He
“Well?” Sue said.
Beamer shrugged. “Read it yourself.” They went inside.
Beamer busied herself with store tasks while the Woodies read the story. She waited on a few customers and played two hands of crazy eights with Alissa, who lost both and retreated unhappily to her corner. Jenny arrived and was greeted by a loud, indignant, and loving chorus.
Maud put her arm around Jenny and read aloud from the paper. “This is rich: ‘A beguiling woman with a sometimes frightening intensity…’!”
Jenny took the paper. “This is my favorite part. I think she has just captured Moonbeam: This girl-woman—’”
Beamer groaned.
“‘—whose eyes shift in an instant from childish innocence to jaded mistrust…’”
The phone rang. Mrs. Flynn answered, then handed it to Beamer. “It’s Andy.”
“Andy, it’s nine o’clock,” Beamer said. “Isn’t that a little early for phone calls?”
“Jaded mistrust!” he said. “That’s it! That’s exactly what I see every time I make a move on you.” Beamer hung up without responding. He deserved worse. The Woodies were all babbling, passing the article around, enjoying themselves and enjoying reading about themselves. They all deserved worse. Beamer felt as sullen as Alissa. She had only herself to blame, she thought for the millionth time. But as she watched them—they had by then been joined by half a dozen others—she understood why she had wanted to tell her story to Rae Ramone: she wanted the world to know what she was up against.
Daniel put down the newspaper he had been reading. “I’m not so sure,” he said slowly, “that this is a flattering portrait of us.”
Smart boy, thought Beamer.
“Why do you feel that?” asked Jenny.
“Well, this bit on the money.” Daniel traced his finger down the newsprint until he found the paragraph. “Here we go:
‘The alternative economic philosophy that inspired the foundation of the commune manifested itself in an old-fashioned capitalistic result: money. After several years of steadily increasing sales and profits, the commune’s two businesses, Better Butter, Inc. and Nature’s Nursery, were sold. Each venture was reported to have netted the commune over $300,000. But the biggest prize was to come. Almost twelve years after the first building was raised and the first well sunk, the group voted to disband. Woodlands was sold to a Chicago real estate developer for nearly half a million dollars. “Faith into Action” was now a credo that each of the ex-commune members could chant all the way to the bank.’”
Daniel slapped the paper. “She makes it sound like we got rich! Like we sold out at the first sign of good money. What she doesn’t say clearly is that the money was split into nineteen shares.” He refolded the paper neatly. “My plumbing customers will really be slow to pay now.” He smiled at Beamer. “But it is a lovely portrait of you, Merry Moonbeam. Maybe you should autograph some of the papers for the customers. I’m sure they’d love it. Charge for the autograph; it’s an old-fashioned capitalistic thing to do.”
Beamer was saved from responding by her father’s appearance. “Didn’t I just send all of you home?” he said to nobody in particular. No one answered. He sat on the counter, drank coffee, and read the article. Beamer stood next to him. He made a few noises, and twice looked questioningly at his daughter. Jenny leaned over his shoulder and pointed. “I thought that was especially insightful of our Moonbeam,” she said. Mr. Flynn pushed her hand away and continued reading. At last he finished.
“Well,” he said, “it’s accurate, but it’s all wrong.”
“What do you mean, Dad?” asked Beamer. “I tried to get everything straight.”
“Oh, not anything you said, Bea. That’s all fine. The reporter’s understanding of it. She just didn’t understand anything she was hearing.” He
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