JANUARY 1, 2002
I have discovered reality TV. What a nightmare. What a glittering example of everything that is wrong with the younger generations. But…what an opportunity for us. I think I have finally solved the issue of how to get people to come gladly, to stay in the park willingly, and to stick it out the whole time in spite of what they may or may not suspect is happening.
More pressing is the issue of inheritance. I’ve had to run the last two seasons with only Ray and Gary to help me manage, though their sons are always good for guard duty. I don’t see true leadership or innovation in any of them. Tommy Callas would be ashamed, I think. At least he was a visionary. None of his descendants have been the same. Certainly I can’t depend on any of Rulon Pulsipher’s children. He’s seen to that.
My own children, of course, have such happy, successful, busy lives elsewhere. Dick wounded me the only way he could, poisoning them against me. I sacrificed everything for my family and they left me behind. Sometimes I think my grandparents were lucky that they never had to see it happen. Their sacrifice was instant and complete.
Doubtless Chuck Callas will be groomed to take over. I know the families have been wanting to push me out for decades. I’d like to see how he does. A woman’s touch will be sorely lacking.
JULY 22, 2002
I will try not to exult in my cleverness, but I was right. The “contest” lured them far more easily and permanently than the promise of honest work did. They all want something for nothing.
JULY 22, 2009
Another perfect season. I think I have finally done what no one else could: created the ideal sacrifice scenario. You’re welcome, Asterion.
JULY 12, 2016
Another successfully planned year, but does anyone give me credit?
I used to think perhaps we should aim for older people, sparing the youth in the hopes that they could still make something of their lives, but I look at this group, at their young faces, their smooth skin, their utter disrespect for experience and labor, all their years spreading ahead of them already wasted. They contribute nothing to society, and they complain at being asked to work like we did, to build themselves like we did. And honestly, I think I’m doing them a favor. I’m giving them purpose. I’m making sure their lives mean something.
JULY 10, 2023
A new season is nearly upon us. This may be my last one. Is it odd that I’m sentimental? I have the names and photos of my final fourteen in front of me. So young. No idea what a great, noble thing they’re about to do.
I wish I were passing this torch to my own daughter. I wish she could have worked side by side with me, like I did with my mother. I wish she could be grateful for what we have given her, instead of taking it and me for granted. The poison of her father. I should have married a damn Harrell or Young, kept it within the families.
Regrets. But I do not regret what I have done to protect this legacy, and what I will do this last time. My legacy would be perfect, were it not for stupid Susan and her theft. But maybe I’ll die before they ever discover the missing book. It would serve them right. A tremendous mess, and no Linda to the rescue! Let them clean up for once.
No need to think on that right now. Another season. Another sacred week to remember those who came before us, to be grateful for all we have, to acknowledge the sacrifice it takes. My life’s work, ready to pass along, to give this trust to those who will linger after me, who will protect the temple and our blessings.
Oh, who am I kidding. They’re all idiots. Let Chuck Callas try to do better than I have. I pity whoever is in his first season. My contestants will never know how lucky they were that I saw them through their sacrifices. They have no idea. No one appreciates the things I do for others.
Twilight releases its grasp on the town, letting night draw a blanket of darkness. The families let out a breath of relief, a sigh of tension released. It’s almost over. Two more days. No one goes out much during the season’s seven days, fear lingering even though the gate is there, even though the beast is fed. At the end of the week, without agreeing to, they’ll have a big cookout, laughing loudly and drinking too much, the end of another season, the promise that things will continue for them as they always have, without struggle, without interruption, the sacrifice finished on their behalf, where they don’t have to hear it or see it or make it.
And Linda’s Jell-O salad is divine.
Meanwhile, in Linda’s house, three stunned people sit on the couch and stare at the end of the journal entries.
“Rulon Pulsipher is my father,” LeGrand says.