He came here last night just after leaving Glassings. He walked up to Hollenback’s apartment and saw the small knocker in the shape of a lion’s face, the academy’s mascot, draped in curlicue ribbon—something Mrs. Hollenback teaches the girls to make in the History of Domesticity as an Art Form. Below the ribbon were two snowflakes—paper ones, like those taped to the school’s plate-glass windows. It’s as if Lyda were here with him all the time. And for a moment he imagined the family asleep, cocooned in their sheets. He didn’t want to wake them up.
But he raised the knocker and tapped it hard.
After a few minutes he heard shuffling and Hollenback’s voice saying, “Who is it? Who’s there? What on earth?” And then the clicking of the lock. Hollenback flung the door wide.
And there he was, agitated, fine hairs floating on top of his nearly bald head, cinching the belt ofhis robe. His shoulders seemed frailer, or maybe it was just that he wasn’t wearing his sport coat. He was expecting a prank or an overblown emergency.
He stared at Partridge. One moment Hollenback thought he knew what the world would bring, and in the next moment, it all changed. Partridge could see the shock in his eyes, and he liked that Hollenback seemed kicked off balance. In that moment, he hated Hollenback for knowing the truth, for swallowing it every day, passing down the lie.
You awake now, Hollenback? Partridge wanted to say. This is how life is. This is how it goes.
Hollenback shuttled him inside. “Partridge Willux,” he kept saying to himself, “how about it?”—and then made a call from the house phone. When he came back, he looked pale. He said, “Stay the night. Everything is okay. Someone will come for you in the morning.”
And now Julby is in Partridge’s face. “You can’t sleep all day.”
“How are you doing, Julby? You seem all grown up.”
She’s wearing a sweater with a Christmas tree design. “I’m in kindergarten, group three, with Mrs. Verk. My mother told me to tell you that we’re going to eat.”
“Eat?”
“It’s our Saturday meal,” she says proudly. Partridge remembers that the Hollenbacks eat at noon on Saturdays: a sit-down meal, spare food, but real—not soytex pills or chalky power drinks. Real food. It’s a perk of the senior faculty. “You’re invited.”
“Are you sure?” He knows that there’s only so much to go around.
“Uh-huh. And some other person is eating with us.”
“Who?” It couldn’t be his father—not Glassings either.
“A girl!” Lyda. This is his first thought, but it’s quickly replaced by a more logical assumption. Iralene. “She has shiny hair and she’s already here. And she smells like bubbles.”
“That sounds like Iralene.”
Julby shrugs and picks at the balls that decorate the Christmas tree on her sweater. “She’s here to take you home.”
“I don’t have a home.”
Julby looks at him and laughs. “You’re funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
Her face becomes solemn. “Jarv doesn’t have a home anymore.”
Mrs. Hollenback was always making excuses for Jarv. He’s just small now because he spits up a lot. Delicate digestive system. He’ll outgrow it! Children who don’t develop well are often taken away for treatment. Had Jarv been flagged? “How’s Jarv these days?” Partridge says as he sits up and gets out of the bed. He is still dressed in his suit pants and shirt, rumpled now.
He finds his necktie on the back of a chair. Julby taps on the window like there might be something on the other side. “Jarv is stupid,” Julby says.
“Jarv isn’t stupid. He’s just little still, that’s all. Is he eating better?”
“How do I know? He’s gone to get unstupid.”
Jarv is gone. He thinks about Mr. Hollenback again—the way he seemed older to him, shrunken. Maybe the loss of Jarv aged him. Partridge doesn’t want to tell Julby that he’s sorry, because that might make her think there’s something to be sorry about. There is, of course. Sometimes these kids don’t ever come back. “But he’ll be home soon.”
“Maybe,” Julby says. “He was just gone one day, so maybe that’s how he’ll come back. A surprise.” She looks at the open door then picks at the balls on her sweater again. “I think you should stay for Christmas. We like it when you’re here.” Julby runs out of the room and down the hall shouting, “He’s awake! He’s awake! He’s awake!”
Partridge walks out of the bedroom and dips quickly into the bathroom. As he’s washing his hands, he takes the cap off his pinky. The skin looks more layered, firmer. He worries that the pinky growing back is a sign that he’s turning back into his old self. His father wants the pinky fully formed, wants the past erased, wants him cleansed. When will he see the old man? Partridge splashes water on his face, stares at himself in the mirror. I’m still me, he says. I’m still me.
Walking out of the bathroom, he hears laughter from the kitchen. He walks past the small living room, the walls filled with shelves of antique books and, in the center of the room, a fake Christmas tree with its medicinal scent of pine spray. There is only one stocking hanging from a hook on a bookcase. It reads JULBY in swirling scroll. No stocking for Jarv. A few months after Sedge had supposedly died, no one mentioned his name in Partridge’s presence. It was as if he’d never existed.
As Partridge walks into the kitchen, he bumps into Mrs. Hollenback, wearing a white apron stitched with the baby Jesus in a manger just over her chest. She looks gaunt too—older, like Mr. Hollenback—but she still has that restless, chipper energy. She has white flour on her hands and hugs him without really touching him. “Partridge! So good to see you. You didn’t tell us that you had this beautiful friend!”
As Mrs. Hollenback backs away, Partridge sees Iralene, with a guard standing behind her chair. Although the guard has no weapons fused to his arms like Special Forces, he’s undergone enhancements. Maybe he’s mid-transformation. He’s wearing a military uniform, with a gun in his holster. Partridge feels like a prisoner again. It’s not Iralene’s fault, of course, but for some reason, it makes him angry at her.
“Hello, Iralene.”
“Hi.”
“So did my father send you?”
Iralene smiles. “There’s going to be a party.”
“What kind of party?” Mrs. Hollenback says, distracted by Mr. Hollenback and Julby arguing about something in the foyer. “I said no, Julby,” Partridge hears Mr. Hollenback say “This is very important. I need you to be on your best behavior or else.” Or else what? You’ll be taken away like Jarv? You’ll disappear?
“It’s just something small,” Iralene says. “Elegant but casual.”
“It sounds lovely,” Mrs. Hollenback says. “What’s the occasion?”
“Well,” Iralene says, glancing at Partridge nervously and then turning her attention to Mrs. Hollenback. “It’s an engagement party!”
Mrs. Hollenback claps her hands, the flour creating small bursts of cloud. “Oh, Partridge! I’m so happy for you two!” She jogs from the room and yells down the hall. “Ilvander! Julby! There’s news!”
Partridge sits down next to Iralene. “What are you talking about?”
“Your father has skipped forward. He wants to see how far you’re willing to go to meet him.” Her eyes flick to the guard and back to Partridge again.
“So we’re engaged. Just like that?”
Mrs. Hollenback is calling out, “An engagement! Our Partridge and Iralene! Come quick!”
Iralene reaches out and grabs his shirtsleeve. She whispers, “If you don’t do it, there’s no more need for me. I’ve betrayed them. If I can’t get you to come back . . .”
He’s furious at his father for puppeteering this twisted setup. Iralene looks anguished. “I’ll talk to him,” he says. “We’ll work this out.”
Mr. and Mrs. Hollenback are both there now, and before Partridge has a chance to clarify the situation, there’s a flurry of excitement, congratulati
ons, handshakes, hugs, claps on the back.
“Well, Julby, what do you think? There’s going to be a wedding!” Mrs. Hollenback says.
Wedding. The word makes him sick. He thinks of Lyda and being with her in the warden’s house, open to the sky. He’d been ready to spend the rest of his life with her. Forever. And now this?
Julby is the only one who’s quiet. Her cheeks are red as if she’s been crying. “That’s nice,” she says.
“Tell them congratulations!” Mrs. Hollenback says.
“Congratulations!” Julby shouts angrily “Lucky us! Lucky us! Lucky us!” She turns and pulls down some drawings taped to the walls—flowers, horses, and rainbows.
“Not now, Julby!” Mr. Hollenback says. “Not in front of guests!”
“Lucky us!” Julby screams and then she runs out of the kitchen.
Mrs. Hollenback covers her hand with her mouth. Her eyes tear up. She then reaches for Partridge and Iralene. She grips their hands. “Don’t tell anyone she was just like that. They’ll get the wrong impression. She’s fine. She’s a good girl. She’s normal! Not like Jarv. Julby will grow up fine. Don’t tell them about this. Okay? Please.”
Mr. Hollenback says, “Helenia, stop. Don’t make more of it than it was.”
“We won’t tell anyone, Mrs. Hollenback,” Partridge says. “We won’t. We promise.”
Iralene smiles. “I heard the girl say, ‘Lucky us,’ and she’s right. We’re all lucky. We have much to be thankful for.”
Mr. Hollenback touches his wife’s shoulder. “See, dear?”
“We’re not talking about Jarv,” Mrs. Hollenback says.
“That’s right,” Mr. Hollenback whispers. “We’re moving forward, not looking back. We’ve already made that decision.”
Mrs. Hollenback nods and walks to the sink. “Yes, yes, of course. Lucky us. Lucky us. Lucky us.”
LYDA
DWARF DEER
LYDA HAS LEARNED THE FOREST. At this time in the afternoon the animals move to water, taking a break from a day of hiding. The light through the trees begins to take on a slant, and it catches the dust that swirls in the air. There is the constant and irregular ticking of the forest, the birds with their warped squawking from the treetops, water trickling to find more water to join with, and the scent of earth and dust.
Mother Hestra is on Lyda’s left, a few yards away. She walks unevenly because of Syden, but almost silently too. Lyda knows the words etched in reverse, darkening Mother Hestra’s face:. . . THE DOGS BARKED LOUDLY. IT WAS ALMOST DARK. She’s never asked what they mean or why they exist. It seems impolite to bring it up. Mother Hestra has never talked about what she was doing during the Detonations or much about her life in the Before.
The underbrush in the forest is thick, which is why they hunt here. They’ve become excellent at harvesting the smaller animals—dwarf deer, rats, the two-legged weasels that drag their bodies along after themselves, lizard-like. They let the dangerous predators hunt in the night. But they’re never far from danger. The mothers have been hunted while hunting, and killed by Groupies and Beasts.
Lyda can smell the day nest of a dwarf deer close by. They rest in groups and have a sharp, musky odor, not a thin scent like the little dogs, regularly bathed in scented shampoos, in the Dome. Lyda loves the smell of the nests. It makes her feel alive. The grip of the bow is polished by her sweaty palm. She made the arrow by hand with Mother Hestra’s help. The bow is made of fiberglass borrowed from something the mothers dismantled and cut into strips. The string is fine and shiny. Whenever Lyda releases it, it plays a note in her right ear, as if the strings were taken from a musical instrument.
Lyda checks that the guide feathers are true, that the arrow fits snug in the bowstring, ready to be drawn.
She senses rustling ahead. She stops, raises her hand. Mother Hestra freezes. Lyda kneels to get sight lines through the underbrush. Mother Hestra also takes a knee, remaining silent and still.
Lyda finds her target: a chubby dwarf deer tipping forward on its shortened front legs to nuzzle something on the forest floor. If Lyda hits it right behind the shoulders, snapping its spinal cord and continuing on into the skull, the preoccupied animal should never feel the sting of the arrow. A poor shot will mean tracking the injured animal through the undergrowth, and most likely losing her arrow. She rarely misses.
Lyda draws back the string and sights down the shaft. She’s learned that the first move of dwarf deer is backward, off their shortened front legs and onto strong haunches. She takes aim. She’s ready and her breathing is still, but as she’s imagining the arrow’s flight into the deer, she feels buzziness in her chest and throat, as if her stomach has flipped from nerves, and now she’s nauseous. It’s the way she feels sometimes when thinking about Partridge, a flushed heat of remembering what it was like to kiss him, to be alone with him. Lovesick. That’s what it’s called and that’s how it feels. Still, she lets the arrow fly, and she knows right away that she wasn’t steady, that the arrow will drift.
And she’s right. The arrow rips straight through the lower ribs of the deer. It squeals, piglike, and topples, but it’s up quickly and moving for cover.
Mother Hestra starts running, bracing her son’s head against her tightly, and is out in front of Lyda before she’s even to her feet.
Lyda runs after her through the trees. She wants to apologize, not only to Mother Hestra, but to the animal. She knows it’s suffering. Hopefully, the wound will cause bleeding that Mother Hestra can track easily and quickly put the deer out of its misery. Lyda doesn’t want the scent of blood to draw the more vicious hybrids from the brush, though.
Lyda follows in Mother Hestra’s wake. Mother Hestra is fast and light, even with the weight of the child; she’s learned to compensate for the imbalance.
Lyda readies another arrow just in case other animals start circling. Mother Hestra has a gun robbed from a cache that the Basement Boys had stripped from Special Forces, but she will use it only as a last resort, if attacked.
What made Lyda miss? She may have eaten something bad, or she might just be hungry. Partridge comes into her mind again, just briefly, but she shoves him out. She has to be alert and present in the forest. She tightens her grip on the bow, takes a few more steps, and sees Mother Hestra standing over the furred lump. The deer is panting, blood soaked into its fur, pooling near its muzzle. It jerks its head as if still trying to get up.
Mother Hestra takes out her gun. She rubs the words burned into her face—. . . THE DOGS BARKED LOUDLY. IT WAS ALMOST DARK—quick and rough. She doesn’t hide her child’s eyes; this is all part of life. But Lyda looks away and then hears a muffled crack. She knows that it’s the butt of the gun on the deer’s skull. Why waste a bullet? The deer is at peace now, Lyda thinks, but as she rounds a tree and sees Mother Hestra and the deer, she knows that something is wrong. Mother Hestra turns to her. “She was with child. They do this sometimes. In death, the body expels the fetus, giving it a chance of survival.” There is a wet, slick, hairless, four-legged body. Its eyes are puffed and sealed shut. Lyda knows that she will remember this image. She’ll see it tonight when she closes her eyes. It will haunt her.
Lyda turns away, unable to watch. She crouches, puts one hand on the dirt, and vomits. She’s completely surprised. She’s gotten used to blood. This has never happened before. She’s even more surprised when she vomits again.
Mother Hestra touches her shoulder. Lyda gets to her feet, wipes sweat from her brow—sweating even though it’s cold outside.
Mother Hestra looks at her very strangely. The dogs barked loudly. It was almost dark, Lyda thinks to herself. Why those words? Why? She doesn’t like the way Mother Hestra’s eyes look so intense, so anxious. Finally, Mother Hestra says, “You’ve stopped bleeding, haven’t you?”
“Bleeding?”
“Your periods.”
Lyda blushes. This isn’t talked about in the Dome. There’s a small cabinet in every bathroom in the girls’ academy with
all the necessities. No need to talk about it. But she hasn’t had a period in a while. She assumed it was because of so much physical change—hard work and strange, spare meals. “You’re right.”
“Did you lie with that boy?”
“Excuse me?” Lyda backs away and brushes the dirt from the knees of her pants.
“We guarded you all that time. We kept you separated. We were trying to save you, and this is what happened? Did he hurt you?”
Lyda shakes her head.
“Did he make you do this thing?”
“What thing?”
“Don’t you even know what I’m saying to you?”
Lyda knows what she’s saying. She’s known the truth in some small voice in the back of her mind. She knew it when she saw the dwarf deer’s fetus, didn’t she? Isn’t that part of why she turned away and got sick? She knows it now, but she can’t say a word.
“You’re pregnant. That’s what. We have to tell Our Good Mother.”
“I can’t be pregnant.” There was a misunderstanding. He’d asked if she was sure, but she thought he was talking about something else. The pregnancy is just a misunderstanding. The woods look suddenly dangerous now. The afternoon light is fading.
“You are,” Mother Hestra says. “I know this is the truth.”
“But we aren’t married.” They were only pretending to be husband and wife.
“Don’t you know how it works? Hasn’t anyone ever told you?”
Lyda thinks of her lessons in infant care—how to apply ointment to rashes, how to pick crust from the infant’s scalp, how to rub teething serum into the gums. They didn’t teach her about pregnancy. The girls whispered. “No, I don’t know how it works.”
“Well, you’ve learned by experience then.”
She thinks about the brass bed frame, her body and Partridge’s body on the floor under the coat. Pregnant. There’s a child growing inside of her. How small is it? She wants to see her mother. She has to tell her. But she may never see her mother again.
“Mother Hestra!” Lyda reaches out her hands. “What will happen to me?”
Fuse (Pure Trilogy 2) Page 26
