by Samuel Fort
Chapter 33: Eliza and Celeste
Eliza and Celeste went to the Solomon dining room at 9am. The pretty woman named Persipia had told them that they might enjoy the breakfast there because most of those present would be “locals.” Eliza understood “locals” to mean “ordinary people,” or people who were skinny, or fat, or balding, or in some way less than perfect. People like her. People unlike Persipia, who was so beautiful she was almost painful to look at.
Eliza knew that her host might be trying to segregate ordinary folks like herself, and her daughter, from the elites, but she was fine with that. While all the supermen and women were very polite an amiable, she suspected they were only being because Persipia had required it. The woman clearly took her assignment as hostess seriously.
The dining room was half-full when Eliza and Celeste entered it. There were perhaps fifty people, mostly women and children, with a few men and a couple of teenage boys. Perhaps a third of those present were Hispanic and spoke softly to one another in Spanish. Most wore blue and white uniforms of housekeepers.
A buffet was at one end of the dining room. She and Celeste approached it and found scrambled eggs, toast, jam, instant coffee, and a pitcher of an orange liquid that resembled orange juice but which was surely made from powder. The offering would have once been considered modest – even sparse. In this new world, it was lavish.
“Where do you want to sit?” asked Celeste, plate in hand. She stood just in front of her grandmother, turning her head to scan the room. None of the tables were empty.
An older man, probably in his sixties, was sitting at a nearby table with a woman in her thirties. He wore a flannel shirt, jeans, boots, and a “John Deere” ball cap. The woman wore a plain red t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He had a smoker’s complexion. She had morning hair.
Both looked up, and the woman said, “You’re welcome to sit here.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Celeste, looking back at Eliza, who nodded her approval.
Eliza and her grandmother sat as the man at the table half stood and leaned across the table, hand extended. “Jason Schmidt,” he said.
Eliza shook hands with the man. Celeste extended her hand but the man withdrew his before she could shake it. He tipped his hat, instead, then looked furtively around the room.
Weirdo, thought Celeste.
“Samantha Woods,” said the woman, not standing, but smiling politely.
Eliza and Celeste introduced themselves.
Schmidt nodded. “We know. You’re Sam’s family.”
“That’s right,” replied Eliza. “Have you met my husband?”
The man shook his head. “Nope, just saw him, and, you know, word gets round. This is a big hotel but it’s a small world.”
Woods looked at the girl. “Celeste?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The woman made a dismissive gesture. “Please, I’m only thirty-two. Hardly a ‘ma’am.’ Besides, I’ll probably be working for you someday.”
Celeste swallowed a piece of toast and laughed. “Yeah, right. I can’t even finish school.”
Woods smiled, “Actually, they’re going to start classes for the kids this spring. That’s what K.B. says.”
“Who’s K.B.?” asked Eliza.
“King Ben,” said Schmidt with a discernible drawl. “Don’t call him that to his face. He doesn’t like it much.”
“Then why call him that?” asked Celeste.
“Oh, it’s just a nickname. All the Niz types refer to him as ‘king’ or ‘anax.’ It just caught on.”
“What’s a Niz?”
“You know,” said Woods. “The others. The Nisirtu.” She leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially, “The weird ones.”
Eliza leaned over and whispered, “All the pretty folks, you mean.”
“More than pretty,” said Schmidt. “They’re all friggin’ geniuses. None of ‘em ever get sick, either. And most of ‘em are pompous-” He looked at Celeste, then Eliza. “They’re stuck up. We don’t mingle with them.”
“We? You mean the locals?” asked Eliza.
“We’re not all locals,” said Woods. “That’s just the name they use for us ordinary people. That, or ‘Or-doon.’”
“R-dune,” said Schmidt, correcting her. “There’s about a hundred of us. Probably about three-quarters women, and around thirty kids, I’d guess.”
“What does ‘Ardoon’ mean?” asked Celeste.
Schmidt chuckled. “I think it means that our kind ‘are done.’ Done in, that is.”
“The Niz – I mean, Nisirtu - seem nice to me,” said Celeste.
Woods nodded. “I imagine that’s because they are nice to you.”
“Aren’t they nice to you?”
The woman grimaced. “They’re not much of anything to us. We’re lesser beings.”
“What do you mean?”
The woman shrugged, then sighed. “Look, I know I shouldn’t complain. I’m alive and I’m eating and I thank God for that. I’ve got an eight-year-old with me, still in bed upstairs. K.B. had all the children brought up here when the world started falling apart. If we had kids all we had to do was ask. Some of the locals who were here at the time decided to refuse his offer and asked to be taken home, instead. To Denver, mostly. He tried to talk them out of it, but they couldn’t be convinced to stay.”
She toyed with her lower lip, as if it annoyed her. “He did what they asked. Shipped them home. I don’t think they fared too well down there.” She looked at Eliza questioningly.
Eliza shook her head. “Odds are they’re dead.”
“Why are you two here?” asked Celeste.
Schmidt said, “I’m a groundskeeper. I’ve been coming up here for years. Used to work for a fella named ‘Ridley.’ He was a crazy old coot but he paid well. I just happened to be up here when the missiles started flying.”
“I do wedding cakes,” said Woods. “Or, did. That’s why most of us are here. There was a big wedding between K.B. and Goldie the day the wars started.”
“Goldie?”
“The ‘queen.’” Woods said bitterly. “One of them, anyway. Now there’s ‘pompous’ for you. Cold as ice.”
Schmidt coughed a fake cough, which prompted Woods to look at him, and then Celeste. Her scornful expression dissolved. In a more congenial tone, she said, “I mean, I’m sure she’s nice. She just doesn’t make a good first impression.”
Celeste saw that the woman was waiting for her to speak. Schmidt was staring at her, too. She said, “What?”
Woods exchanged glances with Schmidt. “You know her, right?”
Celeste shrugged. “I met her. I haven’t really talked to her.”
Schmidt looked at Woods and whispered, “Not Goldie. Red.”
Eliza narrowed her eyes. “What are you two talking about?”
Schmidt cleared his throat. “They’re the two women at the top. Goldie and Red.”
“Red?” asked Celeste. “You mean Fiela?”
Schmidt nodded. “Yeah. The one with red hair and purple eyes.”
“Violet,” Woods corrected him. “She has violet eyes.”
“Fiela’s great,” said Celeste. “She’s super nice.”
“I’m sure she is,” said Schmidt.
Woods said, “Do you need something else to drink, Celeste?”
“No, thank you.”
“Toast? I don’t mind getting it.”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Again with the ‘ma’am.’” The woman laughed politely and propped her chin on her clasped hands. “So, has Red…” She caught herself and began again. “Has Mrs. Fiela told you what you’ll be doing?”
“Doing?” asked Eliza. She was confused as to why the woman focused on Celeste, who was clearly too young to work.
Woods’ smile faltered. For an instant she seemed annoyed with Eliza. She looked at the woman with a smile that was a bit more strained. “Yes. We all have jobs. We pay our way. I work mostly
in the kitchen. Jason spends most of his time doing odd jobs, waiting for spring so he can get back outdoors and tend to the gardens and such. What do you do?”
Eliza said, “I was a substitute teacher for a long time. Elementary schools. History and Literature. I haven’t worked outside the home in a while.”
“You’ll probably be asked to teach, then.”
Celeste said, “I’m going to be a lady.”
Eliza looked at her and nodded. “Of course you are. A fine one, too.”
“No, grandma, ‘a lady.’ That’s what Persy told me.”
“That’s what I said. A lady.”
“No, grandma…”
Schmidt intervened. “What your granddaughter means is she’s a first-round pick.”
“What does that mean?”
Woods said, “Mrs. Fiela wants your granddaughter educated.”
Eliza nodded, still confused. “You said there were going to be classes. It’s only proper Celeste should be educated.”
The other woman shook her head. “Not like that.” She exchanged yet another look with Schmidt before turning back. “Look, the Niz don’t talk to us much but they do need us. We do things for them. Like cook, sew, or fixing things. And Miss P. said-”
“Who?”
“Persy,” said Celeste, making the connection easily.
Woods nodded. “See, you are a smart one, aren’t you?”
Eliza got the hint. She, the grandmother, was not the smart one. “What about Persy?”
Woods looked up, as if surprised Eliza was still there. “Oh! You see, Miss P. does what Goldie and Red tell her to do. She’s like an executive assistant. She’s the one we deal with. Her and K.B. Anyway, she’s already making arrangements for Celeste.”
Eliza felt an odd pang of fear. “What kind of arrangements?”
“Language training, for one. She wants Celeste to speak Niz.”
“You mean ‘Agati,’” said Celeste.
“Smarter and smarter,” Woods replied, running her fingers through the girl’s hair. Eliza resisted the impulse to slap the woman’s hand away. “Yes, Agati. Miss Celeste is getting a whole new wardrobe. I know, because I know the gals who do the sewing. Fancy stuff, too. All silk and velvet and lacy. For special occasions.”
“Wow,” said the girl, looking at her grandmother, who looked less enthused.
“And she’s to have riding lessons,” Woods continued.
“Wow!” said the girl again, even more excited. “I like horses!”
Woods nodded, as if she was personally bestowing the honors. “The best thing,” she said, again leaning forward and dropping her voice to a whisper, “is that the Niz have been told she is the ‘particular friend’ of Mrs. Fiela.”
“What does that mean?” asked Celeste, eyes wide.
Eliza said, “Celeste, would you please get me more toast?”
“Now?” The girl acted as if she’d be interrupted in the act of opening her Christmas presents.
“Now. Make it fresh, please. No hurry.”
The girl made a motorboat sound with her lips. “Yes ma’am.’”
When she was gone, Eliza said, “What does that mean? Particular friend?”
“You never read a Jane Austen book?” asked Woods. “I thought you taught literature.”
Eliza, embarrassed, couldn’t place the phrase, though she did recall it now.
“It means,” said Woods, “that Celeste has practically been adopted by the folks upstairs.”
“What?” exclaimed Eliza. “Why would they do that?” But she was wondering how they could that. Adopt Celeste? Celeste was the only thing she had left in the world. Sam hadn’t said anything about adoption.
The other woman crossed her arms, shook her head, and watched Celeste plopping bread into a toaster. “I guess your girl made a good impression. She’s ‘protected’ now, you know.”
“From what?”
“Ev-er-y-thing,” Woods said, drawing out the word. “Just like Red. Nobody can touch her –literally. Not even the Niz. That’s the command from the Red queen and that’s a gal you do not want to cross. Not if you want to keep your head on your shoulders.”
“She’s violent?”
Schmidt barked a laugh, spewing coffee on the table. “Sorry,” he said, wiping at it with a crumpled cloth.
“Yeah,” said Woods. “A little. Don’t worry. Your granddaughter is as good as gold now. Some folks get all the breaks. My son will probably end up skinning turnips.” She looked back at Eliza. “No one has said anything to you?”
“No.”
“Huh. I mean, I guess it’s not official, but still…you’d think they’d ask your permission, right? She is your granddaughter.” Woods pretended to think. “Unless, of course, you’re not coming along for the ride.”
Schmidt made a face. “Shut up, Sam. You don’t know anything about it. None of us do.” He looked at Eliza. “She’s just jealous.”
“I am,” admitted Woods. “That doesn’t mean I’m wrong, does it?”
