Monday, July 18, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
July made Point Place feel like it had been dipped in syrup.
The air stuck to skin. The curtains barely moved even with windows open. The whole town smelled like cut grass, hot pavement, and somebody's charcoal grill firing up too early in the day.
Inside the Forman house, Kitty tried to keep things nice.
Nice meant the floors were swept even when they didn't stay clean. Nice meant the dishes were washed before Red came home. Nice meant the baby didn't cry too loud in case the neighbors heard and judged her. Nice meant her hair stayed curled, even if she had to roll it the night before and sleep with her scalp aching.
Nice, to Kitty, was a prayer.
Monica sat on the living room rug and watched her mother fold laundry like she was building a wall.
Towels. Shirts. Tiny socks. Baby blankets. One neat pile after another.
Kitty kept glancing toward the bassinet, where Eric slept with his mouth open, warm and pink and innocent of how much gravity he'd brought into the house.
Laurie sat on the couch with a plastic cup, kicking her heels against the cushion rhythmically, like she was bored of life.
Monica's hands were busy with blocks—stacking, unstacking, stacking again. The performance of a quiet toddler.
Inside, Monica listened.
Kitty's humming wasn't cheerful.
It was tension with a melody.
When the back door finally opened, the whole house changed at once—like sound and light rearranged themselves to make room for Red Forman.
He came in smelling like sweat, oil, and the outside heat. His work shirt clung to his back. His face was set the way it always was after the plant: hard mouth, tired eyes, anger tucked away behind his teeth like he was storing it for later.
Kitty turned, smile snapping into place. "Hi!"
Red grunted. "Yeah."
Kitty moved toward him, hands fluttering like she wanted to help but didn't want to annoy him. "How was it?"
Red's jaw tightened. "Hot."
Kitty laughed too quickly. "Well—yes. It's July."
Red didn't laugh.
He looked toward the bassinet, then back at Kitty. "He sleep?"
Kitty nodded fast. "Yes. Finally."
Red's shoulders loosened a fraction. Then he glanced at Laurie and Monica—his eyes landing a beat longer on Monica like he was always checking if she was too quiet.
Laurie immediately perked up, because she knew what Red's attention meant.
"Daaaad," she whined—her favorite sound, half demand, half performance.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Don't start."
Laurie's mouth twisted in offense.
Monica kept stacking blocks, calm and unbothered.
Kitty reached for Red's lunch pail. "Do you want lemonade? I made lemonade."
Red grunted. "Fine."
Kitty rushed to the kitchen like lemonade could fix the world.
Red sat in his chair and leaned back, eyes closing for a second like he wanted to vanish into the cushion. His hands were rough and tired. His forearms had that faint grime the plant never fully let go of.
Monica watched him, and watched the tiny moment when his face softened—just barely—when Eric made a small sleeping sound.
Then Red's eyes opened again, and the hardness returned.
Kitty came back with a sweating glass and set it down gently like an offering.
Red took a long drink. Then he exhaled through his nose. "They got the fans running and it still feels like hell in there."
Kitty nodded, trying to sound supportive instead of scared. "Well… at least they're trying."
Red's mouth flattened. "Trying doesn't mean much when they're still squeezing people."
Kitty froze. "Red…"
Red caught himself, glanced toward the bassinet, then toward Monica. His voice dropped. "Not now."
Kitty swallowed, nodding. "Okay."
But Monica had already heard the important part.
Squeezing.
That word showed up in Point Place the way smoke showed up in kitchens—soft at first, then everywhere.
Laurie slid off the couch and marched toward the bassinet.
Kitty's eyes widened instantly. "Laurie—no—honey—be gentle—"
Laurie put her hands on the edge of the bassinet and leaned forward, face inches from Eric's sleeping face. For a second she looked almost tender.
Then she poked his cheek.
Eric's face scrunched. His mouth opened.
Kitty lunged. "Laurie!"
Eric let out a thin cry—the kind that wasn't loud yet, but promised it would become loud.
Red's head snapped. "God—"
Kitty scooped Laurie up so fast Laurie squealed, outraged. "We do not touch the baby like that!"
Laurie squirmed violently, face red. "Mine!"
Kitty blinked. "What?"
Laurie pointed at Kitty, then at Red, then toward the bassinet again, furious. "Mine!"
Kitty's face softened into heartbreak and exhaustion. "Oh, honey… no. He's not yours. He's our baby. He's your brother."
Laurie didn't want a brother.
Laurie wanted the attention that used to belong to Laurie.
Monica watched the whole thing, calm on the outside, mind sharp on the inside.
This is the beginning, Monica thought. This is where jealousy becomes a habit.
Red stood, voice low and dangerous. "Put her down."
Kitty hesitated. "Red, she's just—"
Red cut her off. "Put her down. She's not getting held like she's the victim."
Kitty swallowed and set Laurie on the rug.
Laurie instantly stomped toward Monica and slapped Monica's block tower over.
Blocks clattered across the floor.
Monica didn't flinch.
Monica didn't cry.
Monica simply looked at Laurie—wide-eyed toddler calm—and then slowly began picking blocks up again, one by one, like the mess didn't matter.
Laurie stared, frustrated that Monica didn't react.
Red's gaze flicked to Monica. That same subtle approval stirred—annoying him as much as it pleased him.
Red muttered, "Good."
Kitty heard and her eyes went soft. "Monica's being a good girl."
Laurie's face twisted, furious.
Kitty tried to soften it. "Laurie can be good too."
Red's mouth flattened. "Then she better start."
Eric's cry rose higher, thin and sharp.
Kitty moved toward him immediately, scooping him up and rocking. "Shh, baby… Mommy's here…"
Red stared at Kitty holding Eric like it was a picture that made him proud and angry at the same time.
Then, as if he needed something else to focus on, Red said, "We're going to the picnic."
Kitty blinked, startled. "The—what picnic?"
Red's jaw tightened. "The church picnic. They've been yapping about it for weeks."
Kitty hesitated. "Red, it's so hot and I—"
Red cut in. "You need out of this house."
Kitty's mouth opened, then closed. She knew when Red had decided something. Red didn't bend.
And maybe part of her wanted to go—wanted to stand in the sun with other women and pretend, for an hour, that everything was normal.
So Kitty nodded. "Okay."
Laurie perked up instantly at the idea of people.
Monica's attention sharpened too.
People meant talk.
Talk meant truth, if you listened the right way.
_____
The church picnic was held in a field behind the church, close enough to town that you could still hear cars passing, far enough that it felt like "nature." Folding tables lined up under a few sad trees. Coolers sat in clusters. Men stood around grills like they were guarding them.
Families spread blankets on the grass. Kids ran around with sticky hands. A few older boys tossed a baseball and tried to look impressive.
Kitty carried Eric, fanning him gently with a napkin. Red carried the cooler. Monica and Laurie walked between them—Laurie trying to sprint ahead, Monica staying close, quiet and observant.
The moment Kitty stepped into the crowd, she transformed.
Her smile came easier. Her voice brightened. Her shoulders lifted like she could breathe again.
"Kitty!" women called. "Oh my goodness, look at the baby!"
Kitty beamed. "This is Eric!"
Red stood behind her, stiff, holding the cooler like a shield.
Women cooed at Eric. Men nodded at Red like they understood the weight of being a father, even if none of them ever said it out loud.
Monica watched the way Kitty's eyes flicked constantly—checking faces, reading reactions, counting approval.
Then Monica watched the men.
Men spoke with their mouths. They spoke with their hands too—gestures, tight grips, shoulders angled like they were bracing.
Red drifted toward a cluster of plant men without thinking.
Kitty stayed with the women, naturally, like the picnic had two invisible circles: one for people who talked about feelings, one for people who pretended they didn't have any.
Monica and Laurie ended up near a table of desserts.
Laurie grabbed a cookie with both hands before anyone could stop her.
Kitty glanced over and sighed. "Laurie—just one."
Laurie shoved the cookie into her mouth and grinned, crumbs everywhere.
Monica didn't reach for sweets. Monica watched.
A woman near Kitty leaned in, voice lowered. "How's Red holding up?"
Kitty's smile tightened. "Oh, he's fine."
The woman's eyes flicked to the men. "They're saying things."
Kitty's laugh came too quickly. "People always say things."
The woman didn't laugh. "Yeah."
Monica listened, memorizing every word.
Behind them, the men's circle tightened.
Monica couldn't hear everything, but she caught fragments—sharp and loaded.
"…overtime's good until it isn't…"
"…heard they're cutting Henderson's line…"
"…if the union pushes, management'll push back…"
"…don't talk about it here…"
"…everybody knows everybody…"
That last phrase—everybody knows everybody—landed heavy.
Because it was true.
Point Place didn't have privacy. It had performance.
If Red lost his job, the entire town would know before Kitty did.
If Kitty cried, the entire town would know before Red saw her tears.
If Monica ever slipped—ever acted too adult, too smart, too aware—the town would turn it into rumor and then into judgment.
Monica understood it with a clarity no toddler should have:
This place could be kind, but it was also hungry.
Hungry for stories.
Hungry for weakness.
Laurie, already finished with her cookie, spotted a little girl on a blanket with a doll.
Laurie marched over like she owned the world and snatched the doll straight out of the girl's hands.
The girl froze, then screamed.
Adults turned.
Kitty's face flushed bright red. "Laurie!"
Red's head whipped around like he'd been waiting for a reason to explode.
Laurie clutched the doll, defiant.
The little girl sobbed, reaching.
Kitty hurried over, mortified. "Laurie, you can't—honey, give it back."
Laurie jerked away.
Red stepped forward, voice low and terrifying. "Give it back."
Laurie stared at Red, daring him.
Monica stood still a few steps away, heart pounding—not from fear for herself, but from the knowledge that this moment mattered.
Because this was Laurie learning what worked.
Would Red roar? Would Kitty soothe? Would Laurie get rewarded with attention?
Red's hand shot out and grabbed the doll. He yanked it free without gentleness and handed it back to the little girl.
"Sorry," he muttered—sharp, uncomfortable apology.
The little girl's mother stared at Red like she was judging him for being harsh.
Kitty's voice went frantic. "I'm so sorry—she's just—she's little—"
The mother's smile was tight. "Kids."
But her eyes said what her mouth didn't:
Control your child.
Laurie's face crumpled—outraged that she'd been denied.
She opened her mouth to scream.
Monica moved before the scream could detonate.
She toddled toward Laurie, held out a small plastic cup—one she'd picked up from the dessert table earlier—and babbled softly like it was a gift.
Laurie's eyes flicked to the cup.
Not because she wanted the cup.
Because Monica was offering something.
Offering meant attention.
Laurie's scream paused, caught.
Kitty saw the pause and pounced on it, voice sweet. "Oh! Laurie, look—Monica has something for you!"
Laurie grabbed the cup like it was treasure.
Kitty exhaled in relief, cheeks still flushed.
Red stared at Monica like he'd watched her defuse a bomb with toddler hands.
Then Red's mouth tightened, annoyed at himself.
He turned away and muttered, "Let's go."
Kitty blinked. "Already?"
Red's voice stayed flat. "I'm done."
Kitty didn't argue. Not in public. Not here.
She gathered the diaper bag, shifted Eric higher on her shoulder, and called, "Okay! Bye! Thanks for—"
Red was already walking.
Monica stayed close to Kitty, quiet as always.
Laurie clutched her stolen cup and looked around like she'd won.
As they walked to the car, Monica glanced back at the picnic field—at the smiling faces and the tight eyes, the laughter and the fear under it.
Everybody knew everybody.
And everybody was pretending not to know what was coming.
Monica climbed into the car and buckled in, toddler-slow, mind racing.
Because she didn't have the luxury of pretending.
Not anymore.