Saturday, September 1, 1962 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
Point Place didn't do privacy.
It did porches. It did curtains. It did waves that were really inspections. It did conversations that sounded friendly until you realized your name had been said three times before you even walked past.
Summer had finally started to break, the air cooler in the mornings, the light less harsh. The kind of day Kitty Forman called "perfect."
Red called it "fine."
Monica called it what it was:
A day the town would use to remind you that you belonged to them.
Kitty was in the kitchen early, humming and moving like she was trying to outrun anxiety. There was a dish on the counter covered in foil—something baked, something sweet, something meant to prove Kitty wasn't falling behind.
"Monica, sweetheart," Kitty called, turning from the sink with flushed cheeks. "Do you remember what today is?"
Monica sat at the table with a crayon and paper, pretending to scribble. She looked up with wide, polite eyes.
"Church," Monica said softly.
Kitty beamed like Monica had just recited Shakespeare. "Yes! And after, there's the picnic."
Laurie—already dressed, already sulking, hair combed too hard—leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed.
"I don't want to go," Laurie announced.
Kitty's smile strained. "You always say that, and you always have fun."
"I don't," Laurie snapped. "It's boring."
Eric, sticky-faced and delighted by the foil, toddled into the kitchen and slapped his hands against the counter.
Kitty gasped. "Oh—no, no—Eric—"
Red walked in like a storm cloud, already dressed in his good shirt, already irritated that the day required effort.
He looked at the dish, then at Kitty.
"What is that."
Kitty straightened. "Bars. Lemon bars."
Red's mouth tightened. "Why."
Kitty blinked. "Because… it's the picnic."
Red grunted like the word picnic was offensive.
Laurie seized the moment. "I'm not going."
Red's gaze snapped to Laurie. "Yes you are."
Laurie's chin lifted, defiant. "Why do we have to?"
Red's voice went flat. "Because your mother said so."
Kitty's shoulders loosened at that—tiny relief, because Red didn't always back her up out loud.
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Monica doesn't even like it."
Monica didn't react.
She just smiled faintly and said, "I like Mommy's bars."
Kitty melted instantly. "Oh, sweetheart…"
Red grunted and went to the living room like conversation was work.
Monica watched the pattern click into place.
Town day. Church day. Public family day.
The Formans were going to be seen.
And being seen meant being judged.
______
Church smelled like perfume, paper fans, and old wood.
Monica sat still between Kitty and Laurie, feet not touching the floor. Eric was on Kitty's lap, squirming and making soft noises until Kitty bounced him quietly into submission.
Red sat rigid, jaw set, eyes forward like he was being punished.
Around them, Point Place breathed.
Monica felt the eyes before she saw them.
The older women who watched Kitty's hair and hemline.
The men who watched Red's posture and shoes.
The other children who watched Laurie with interest and Monica with confusion—because Monica didn't move like most kids.
Monica didn't fidget.
Monica didn't whisper.
Monica didn't make noise.
Monica sat like she was waiting for something important.
Like she understood what adults were saying.
It made people uncomfortable.
After service, everyone spilled outside into sunlight and chatter. The picnic tables behind the church were already filling, blankets spread on grass, casseroles and desserts appearing like offerings.
Kitty's whole face changed outside.
She became brighter.
Louder.
More "Kitty."
It wasn't fake, exactly.
It was armor.
"Oh, hello!" Kitty called as a woman approached—Mrs. Palmer, hair sprayed into a helmet, smile sharp. "Oh my goodness, it's so nice to see you."
Mrs. Palmer's gaze flicked over Kitty's dish first, then Kitty's dress, then the children.
"And these are the twins," she said, voice sweet.
Laurie tilted her chin. "I'm Laurie."
Mrs. Palmer smiled wider. "Of course you are. And you must be Monica."
Monica nodded politely. "Hello, ma'am."
Mrs. Palmer blinked—surprised.
Adults always blinked when Monica used "ma'am."
"Oh," Mrs. Palmer said, then laughed a little too loudly. "Well! Aren't you precious."
Kitty's eyes shone, proud. "She's very polite."
Mrs. Palmer leaned in, voice dropping as if sharing a secret. "Red must be happy."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Red is happy."
Mrs. Palmer's gaze slid toward Red—who was already drifting toward the men near the grill.
"Still at the plant?" she asked.
Kitty's eyes flickered.
Monica felt it—tiny tension spike.
Kitty answered anyway, bright. "Yes, yes! He's—he's working very hard."
Mrs. Palmer made a sympathetic noise. "Oh, it's been tough. I heard they're cutting hours."
Kitty laughed too fast. "Oh, you know how rumors are."
Mrs. Palmer patted Kitty's arm like Kitty was a patient. "Of course. Of course."
Then she turned to Monica again, smile sharp-sweet. "And you're starting school soon, aren't you?"
Monica blinked slowly. "Yes."
Mrs. Palmer's eyes narrowed. "Are you excited?"
Monica smiled softly, harmless. "Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Palmer looked like she wanted to ask something else—why are you like this?—but she didn't.
She just smiled too wide, said goodbye, and drifted away.
Kitty exhaled, shoulders dropping a fraction.
Laurie scowled. "She was rude."
Kitty's smile stayed fixed. "She was being friendly."
Laurie rolled her eyes.
Monica didn't comment.
She watched Kitty's hands.
Kitty's fingers were tapping lightly against the dish, a small nervous habit.
Monica knew what was under it.
Not Mrs. Palmer.
The plant.
_______
Red stood by the grill with three other men—Mr. Kowalski, Mr. Harper, and Mr. Stevens. They talked the way men did when they were trying not to sound worried.
Sports. Weather. Cars.
Then, when they thought no one was listening:
The plant.
"—heard they're cutting overtime," Mr. Harper muttered, glancing around.
Red's jaw tightened. "They can't cut overtime if they want the orders done."
Mr. Stevens snorted. "They don't care about orders. They care about numbers."
Red's eyes narrowed. "They care about their bonuses."
Mr. Kowalski scratched his jaw. "My brother in Kenosha says his place is talking layoffs."
Red's expression hardened like a door locking.
"They lay off people," Red said, voice low, "they'll lose the ones who actually know how to do the work."
Mr. Harper gave a humorless laugh. "They don't care."
Red's hand tightened around his paper plate until the edge bent.
Monica watched from a distance, sitting on the grass with Eric while Kitty chatted nearby.
She couldn't hear every word, but she could hear the tone.
Red's tone wasn't just irritation.
It was threatened.
Red was a man who tolerated a lot—noise, town gossip, children, nonsense—because he had to.
But threaten his ability to provide?
Threaten his role?
He became something else.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Economic strain was the kind of invisible monster that ate families slowly.
Kitty kept laughing nearby, bright, too bright, as she spoke to a group of women.
"I know, isn't it just lovely?" Kitty chirped, even as her eyes kept flicking toward Red.
Kitty was listening with her whole body.
She always was.
A woman could smile and still measure danger.
Monica leaned down toward Eric, who was gnawing on a cookie like it was a job.
"Slow," Monica murmured, gently wiping his cheek with her napkin.
Eric blinked at her, sticky and happy.
Kitty noticed and softened immediately. "Oh, Monica, you're such a good helper."
Laurie, overhearing, snapped, "I can help!"
Kitty smiled, strained. "Of course you can."
Laurie huffed, then spotted a cluster of girls near the swings and stalked off like she'd been summoned by attention.
Monica watched her go, already knowing:
Laurie didn't want to help.
Laurie wanted to be seen.
And Point Place would see her.
Point Place always did.
______
Later, as the picnic drifted into heat and lazy chatter, a woman Monica didn't know approached Kitty.
She was younger than the others, dark hair pinned back, eyes tired. Her smile was polite but careful.
"Kitty Forman?" she asked.
Kitty turned, instantly bright. "Yes! Hi!"
The woman nodded toward the children. "Your twins are adorable."
Kitty laughed. "Thank you! They're—well—something."
The woman's gaze flicked to Monica, lingering longer.
Monica smiled politely. "Hello."
The woman blinked—again, that little shock.
Kitty beamed. "She's very polite."
The woman's smile warmed a fraction, then faded. "My husband—he's at the plant too."
Kitty's posture stiffened slightly. "Oh."
The woman lowered her voice. "Have you heard anything?"
Kitty's smile stayed fixed, but her eyes darted.
Red was still at the grill.
Other women were nearby.
Point Place listened.
Kitty answered carefully. "No, no. Red hasn't said anything."
The woman's hands twisted together. "They cut my husband's hours last month. We're—" She swallowed hard. "We're fine. But I'm worried."
Kitty's bright mask faltered for a half-second—real empathy pushing through.
"Oh honey," Kitty whispered.
Then she caught herself. Straightened. Smiled again.
"I'm sure it'll be okay," Kitty said, loud enough for anyone listening. "These things always work out."
The woman nodded, but she didn't look convinced.
She looked… scared.
She walked away.
Kitty exhaled, then turned toward Monica and forced a cheerful tone.
"Okay! Who wants lemonade?"
Eric squealed.
Monica nodded politely. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's smile softened for real. She leaned down and brushed Monica's hair back gently.
"You're such a good girl," Kitty whispered, like she needed to say it to believe it.
Monica's chest ached—not because she wanted praise, but because she could feel what Kitty was doing.
Kitty was gathering reassurance wherever she could.
From neighbors. From family. From Monica.
Because the plant was a shadow.
And shadows made Kitty frantic.
______
That night, back home, the house felt quieter—too quiet.
Red didn't speak much through dinner. He chewed like it was work, eyes fixed somewhere far away.
Laurie chattered loudly about the swings and the girls and who was "mean" and who was "stupid" and how everyone should have watched her more.
Kitty laughed in the right places but kept glancing at Red.
Eric smeared mashed potatoes on his tray.
Monica ate neatly, listening.
When Kitty put Eric to bed and Laurie stormed off to play, Kitty moved toward Red in the living room like she was approaching a sleeping bear.
"Red," Kitty said softly.
Red didn't look up. "What."
Kitty's hands twisted in her lap. "Are things… okay at the plant?"
Red's jaw tightened. "Fine."
Kitty swallowed. "Because Mrs. Jensen's husband—she said—"
Red's voice snapped sharper than Kitty expected. "I said it's fine."
Kitty flinched, then forced her smile. "Okay. Okay."
Monica stood in the hallway, unseen, watching the moment like a bruise forming.
Red wasn't angry at Kitty.
Not really.
Red was angry at helplessness.
And the plant made him feel helpless.
Kitty tried again, softer. "Red, I just—if there's anything we need to—"
Red cut her off, voice low and rough. "We don't need to do anything. I'll handle it."
Kitty nodded quickly, relief and fear mixed.
Red stood abruptly, grabbed his jacket.
Kitty blinked. "Where are you going?"
Red's mouth tightened. "Garage."
Kitty's shoulders sagged.
Monica watched Red's back disappear into the darkness of the garage like he was retreating into the only place that made sense.
Tools.
Rules.
Fixing.
Monica looked at Kitty, who stood alone in the living room, hands clasped, trying to breathe through worry.
Monica walked in quietly.
Kitty looked down, startled. "Oh! Monica—honey—shouldn't you be in bed?"
Monica tilted her head, then reached into the pocket of her little cardigan and pulled out her dime—the one Red had given her months ago.
She placed it in Kitty's palm.
Kitty blinked, confused. "Sweetheart—what—"
Monica's voice was soft. "For Mommy."
Kitty stared at the dime like it was a miracle. Her eyes filled instantly.
"Oh, Monica," Kitty whispered, voice breaking. "Oh honey…"
Monica didn't hug her.
Monica just stood there, small and steady, offering what she could.
Kitty closed her fingers around the dime and pressed it to her chest like she could anchor herself with it.
"You don't have to give me your money," Kitty whispered.
Monica blinked innocently. "I want."
Kitty let out a shaky laugh through tears. "You're… you're a good girl."
Monica nodded, calm.
Inside, she thought:
Town eyes don't see what matters.
They see smiles. Dishes. Church clothes.
But the real strain lives in kitchens at night.
Monica went to bed with a quiet resolve settling deeper.
Point Place could watch all it wanted.
Monica would watch back.
And Monica would remember.