The Collar and the Cavvarach

by Annie Douglass Lima

  When he knocked, a slave he had never met before — a woman probably in her thirties — answered the door. “Yes?”

  Bensin stared at her. “Who are you?” Her collar tag told him her name was Becka, but that wasn’t the point.

  “My name’s Becka. The Creghorns hire me in now for housework.”

  For a second Bensin’s heart clenched up. Thanks to extra cavvara shil practice before the Young Warriors of Jarreon tournament, it had been nearly a week since he had come to visit Ellie. What had changed in that time? “The — she — they — my sister —”

  “Oh, are you Ellie’s brother? You must be; you look like her. Yeah, she’s here. She’s been waiting for you to come today.”

  He dared to breathe again. “Bensin?” called a voice from inside. Becka backed away to let him in, and he stepped into the entryway in time for his sister to dash into his arms.

  “Ellie! I’m so happy to see you.” And he was. So happy his knees were weak with relief. “I thought you might have been sold.”

  “What are we gonna do today?” she inquired, grinning, as Becka shut the door to keep the air conditioning in.

  Bensin crouched down in the entryway to talk to her. “Listen, Ellie, I’m not sure we can do anything today. I have to go run an errand.”

  Her face fell. “But I missed you. You haven’t come here in a long time. Can’t I come with you?”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea, at least not right now. I’ll take you there with me another time.”

  “Where do you have to go?”

  “It’s a place that fixes cars. It would be very boring for you.” With Becka standing right there, he didn’t want to say any more. “But I have to come in and look up the address first.” He knew there was a quick way to do that on a computer, but he wasn’t sure how it worked, and the Creghorns would never let him touch one of their computers anyway. But they might let him look in their paper phone book.

  The Creghorns were both watching a talk show on TV in the living room. “You again?” Mr. Creghorn demanded.

  Bensin put on his most respectful expression. “Good morning sir, ma’am. I mowed the lawn for you already. May I please look in your phone book to check the address of somewhere I’m supposed to go to run an errand?”

  “You wipe your feet?” Mrs. Creghorn wanted to know.

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  “Washed your hands?”

  “Not yet, ma’am. I’ll do that now.” He walked around behind the couch so as not to block their view of the TV — Mr. Creghorn had once given him three lashes for that — and washed his hands with soap in the bathroom. Then he slipped back into the living room, trying to make himself inconspicuous, and knelt down by the little table in the corner where the phone sat. There was a pad of paper and pen beside it for taking messages, and on the shelf underneath lay the phone book. Bensin pulled it out and flipped through until he found the W section near the end. There it was: Wenn’s End Auto Repair and Detailing. He jotted down the phone number and address, disappointed that he did not recognize the name of the street and would have to call for directions. He didn’t have his bus route map with him. But the Creghorns would probably not let him use their phone, and even if they did, he didn’t want them to have the slightest hint what he was up to. He would have to pay to use the public one over by the park.

  Tears were trickling down Ellie’s face when he hugged her goodbye on the front porch. “I wanted to go out and play with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Ellie. I really am. Listen, if I get back soon enough, I’ll come over again, okay? And if I can’t, I’ll stop by and see you tomorrow for a little while before I go hire out.”

  “But I wanna play with you now.” She sniffed and wiped her nose with her hand. “I wanna go to the park. Please? I’m so bored and lonely all the time without you.”

  She sounded so miserable that he almost gave in. You have to do this, he reminded himself. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “But tell you what: when I come tomorrow, I’ll bring you a little present, okay?”

  She brightened. “What present?”

  “Um … a book. I’ll stop by the store on my way here and buy you a book. How about that?”

  “But will you stay and read it to me? ’Cause I can’t read it by myself, and if you don’t, I’ll still be bored and lonely.”

  “Yeah, I’ll stay as long as Mrs. Creghorn lets me.”

  “Okay.” She sniffed again. “But I miss you. There’s nothing to do on my day off when you don’t come.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” He hugged her one last time, swallowing the lump in his throat. I’m doing this for her sake, he reminded himself. She deserves a better life. She deserves to be free. And he would get her freed if it killed him.

  It was a long bus ride to Wenn’s; over an hour and a half, with two separate transfers. Bensin kept pulling out the paper to check the directions he had been given over the phone. When he finally got off at the last stop, the auto repair shop was still four blocks away through what was obviously a bad part of town. Barbed wire and graffiti were everywhere, and shifty-looking people hung out on the street corners. He counted eight separate shops selling different flavors of betel nut, the legal drug of choice among many of Jarreon’s lower class citizens. Globs of its damp fibrous residue littered the ground, and occasional reddish splatters on the sidewalk showed where users had spat out the juice. Bensin was glad it was broad daylight, and the thought of possibly bringing Ellie here at night made him distinctly uncomfortable.

  His destination was located at the end of a potholed street full of disreputable looking businesses. From half a block away, Bensin could hear music blaring. When he got close enough, he saw that Wenn’s End consisted of a large garage, the front rolled up and left open to the air. Three cars were parked in there. A pair of legs stuck out from under one of them, and a guy in overalls was poking around under its hood.

  The music was so loud they didn’t hear him coming. Bensin stood on the sidewalk just outside, looking around the shop as he waited to be noticed. The floor was stained with motor oil, betel nut juice, and other less identifiable substances. Along the walls were cupboards and sagging shelves full of grimy car parts and miscellaneous tools. Do any of them look like they could cut through a steel collar? Bensin couldn’t see any obvious choices, but this did seem like the sort of place where such things might be found.

  The song ended, and in the moment of silence before the next one began, he cleared his throat. “Excuse me, sir?”

  The guy by the hood turned around. “Oh, hi. Didn’t hear you come up. Your owner send you to buy something?”

  “No, sir, but I have permission to be out.” He held up the pass Coach Steene had written him earlier that morning. A new song started, and he stepped forward and spoke louder to be heard over it. “Are you Wenn, sir?”

  “No, he’s Wenn.” The man nudged the protruding legs with one foot and bent over, raising his voice. “Hey boss, someone’s here for you.”

  The man who was Ellie’s ticket to freedom slithered backward out from under the car and sat up. Judging by his narrowed eyes and high cheekbones, he was Nelirian, like Ricky, and judging by the reddish stains on his lips, he was overly fond of betel nut. “Yeah?”

  Crouching down beside him, Bensin took a deep breath. “I’m the one who called awhile ago to ask for directions, sir. Bruno sent me to ask for work.”

  “Did he?” Wenn picked up a Styrofoam cup from the ground nearby and rose to his feet. He worked a wad of betel nut out from one cheek and spat it into the cup. “Well, do you know anything about engines?”

  “Um — not really, sir.” Was it a legitimate question? Did the man expect him to actually do a job for him? Or was he just being careful about what he said in front of his coworker?

  “Well, you can wash this other car for us.” Wenn indicated one of the two they weren’t working on. “Its owner is coming back for it pretty soon. Supplies are in that cupboard; fa
ucet’s out front to your left. Make sure you dry it and give it a good wax when you’re done.” He set the cup down again and disappeared back under the car.

  Maybe he’s waiting to talk to me when the other guy leaves. Bensin found the supplies where indicated and started in. He hoped this wouldn’t take too long; considering the length of the bus ride, he ought to be starting back pretty soon.

  Eventually both men finished their tasks. Wenn propped open the hood of the other car and began to fiddle around under it, and the second man hung his tools up on the wall and disappeared through a doorway.

  This is my chance. Bensin set down the sponge he had been using and approached Wenn again. “Sir,” he began, raising his voice above the blasting music, “the reason I actually came —”

  “Shut up!” The man glared at him. Then he beckoned and pointed to something under the hood.

  Uncertainly, Bensin stepped closer and bent to see what Wenn was pointing at. He didn’t know much about car parts, but he saw nothing that seemed out of the ordinary.

  Wenn seized him by the collar and tugged his head in there above the engine, leaning in himself until their faces were only inches apart.

  “We can’t talk here!” His voice was almost inaudible under the music. Bensin, clutching the edge of the engine compartment, stared at him in the gasoline-fumed shadows. “Didn’t you see the cameras?” the man demanded.

  “Cameras, sir?”

  “The video cameras installed up in the corners by the ceiling. No, don’t look now! They don’t pick up audio, but someone could read our lips.” At Bensin’s blank expression, he went on. “We have to have a special license because we keep tools like bolt cutters here that could be used for — you know — less than legal purposes.” He gave the collar a meaningful twitch. “So the government keeps an eye on us through the cameras, or at least they could be watching at any given moment. They ever suspect I use my tools to cut something I’m not supposed to, they take over the business just like that; and everyone who works here ends up on the auction block.” He released the collar. “So shut up. Be patient.”

  Bensin nodded. Rubbing the back of his neck where the steel had dug in, he straightened up and went back to work on the waxing.

  Wenn’s partner came in and out a few times, puttering around, and a third man appeared and joined Wenn working under the hood. Bensin wondered how long it would be until they left and where Wenn was planning to bring him to talk to him. He wished he could see a clock; it must be past time for him to head back. What am I supposed to tell Coach Steene if I’m late?

  “I’m finished, sir,” he announced over the music when he was done with the waxing.

  Wenn came over, greasy rag in hand, and did a quick circuit of the car. “Looks good. Now grab that broom over there and sweep up the floor.”

  Bensin obeyed, wondering if he was going to be paid for any of this. He had just started sweeping when the car’s owner walked in. After a brief argument about the cost, the man handed over a handful of bills and drove his car away.

  “It leaked oil,” one of Wenn’s employees pointed out. “Why don’t you scrub that spot for us before we have to park someone else’s car there.”

  Actually, the whole floor was covered with oil stains and grease. It was hard to imagine why anybody who cared enough to tell him to clean it now would have let it get to this state to begin with. But Bensin filled the bucket with water again and found a bottle of floor cleaner and a wire scrub brush. He had to get down on his hands and knees to do it, and he was glad he was wearing shorts and not long pants. Grease stains on his clothes would be hard to explain to Coach Steene.

  He suspected that the floor had not been thoroughly cleaned in months at the very least. The stains were stubborn and would not give up their hold on the concrete. But he managed to get rid of the worst of the filth, leaving the floor looking bruised but no longer gangrenous.

  “You can do the bathroom now,” Wenn told him when Bensin had washed out the scrub brush and emptied the soiled water into the gutter out front. “Grab the bottle of cleaner on that shelf, along with a couple of those rags and the toilet brush.”

  Bensin was dismayed. I’m going to be really late. He supposed he could leave right now, but then Wenn might get angry and refuse to help him later. I’ll just have to stay as long as it takes, he decided, picking up the indicated supplies and following the man through a door at the back of the large room. I’ll think of something to tell Coach.

  They made their way down a short, dimly lit hallway, and Wenn reached into a doorway to the left and turned on a light switch. “Make sure you get it sparkling. I’ll come check on you when I have a chance.” He gave Bensin a meaningful look and squeezed past him back down the hall.

  The bathroom was easily the filthiest Bensin had ever seen. Some sort of gray mold or mildew speckled the walls. The floor was just as nasty as the one out in the garage, though soiled with different substances whose identity he could only guess at. The sink was discolored and caked with slime, the cracked mirror was so grimy he could barely see his reflection, and the toilet — well, one glance made him want to throw up. As he stepped into the room, two large, shiny black cockroaches scuttled past and darted into the safety of a mostly-clogged drain in the floor.

  And I thought Coach Steene’s bathroom was bad when I first moved in. Compared to the one before him now, the surfaces there had almost been clean enough to eat off of. How can anyone stand to even come in here?

  Sticking his head back out into the hallway for one last breath of relatively fresh air, Bensin attacked the sink with half a dozen vigorous squirts from the spray bottle. It’s for Ellie, he reminded himself, scrubbing in time to the throbbing of the music from down the hall.

  He had to rinse the rag out eleven times, and he wished there was soap to wash his own hands when he was done. My skin is getting polluted just by being in this room. But at last the sink was presentable, and he started in on the toilet.

  Wenn stuck his head in half an hour later. “It’s looking good.” He grinned, displaying red-stained teeth and gums. “Keep it up. I’ll be back when I can.” He disappeared again before Bensin could ask how much longer he would have to continue this.

  Over an hour must have passed before Wenn finally returned. Bensin was scrubbing at the soiled walls, trying to hold his breath as he worked, wondering what the mold was doing to his lungs. Certain now that the mechanic was purposely taking a long time so as to get as much labor out of him as possible, Bensin seethed in angry frustration. But what could he do?

  That pretty much sums up slavery. Frustration and anger and unfair treatment with nothing you can do about it. But he was going through this now so that Ellie could get out of this life. That was the only thing that kept him going.

  “Gosh, I don’t think this room’s been this clean since we set up shop here twenty-two years ago,” the Nelirian observed from the doorway.

  Bensin had no problem believing that. “So can we talk now?”

  “Yeah.” Wenn stepped inside and shut the door. It was uncomfortable standing so close to him in such a cramped space, surrounded by the smell of chemicals and mold. The man himself smelled as though he hadn’t showered in a few days, and Bensin tried not to wrinkle his nose.

  “So. Tired of a life of slavery, huh?” He reached out with a grease-stained hand and fingered the steel circlet of Bensin’s collar. “This the upgraded version with the GPS?”

  “It isn’t my collar I want removed,” Bensin told him. “It’s my sister’s.”

  “Oh yeah? Any idea if hers has GPS?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. I don’t think her owners would have wanted to pay for it.”

  “Well, you better find out, because I can’t take it off here if it does. Look close, and it should say on the edge somewhere.” Following his own advice, he bent over, his unshaven face only inches from Bensin’s neck. Bensin had to resist the urge to shrink away and pull his collar out of the man’s grimy hand a
s he turned it to examine the whole circle. “Yeah, yours is clear. It would have GPS Enabled imprinted in the steel near the hinge at the back.”

  “Okay, I’ll check her collar.” Bensin took a step backward. “Assuming it doesn’t, then what?”

  “Then you come by again and let me know, and we plan a time late some night to bring her over.”

  “Do I have to come by to let you know? Can’t I just call?” Bensin had a sneaking suspicion that if he came here again he would end up working for hours once more.

  “No, you can’t call. Our government friends could be listening in on our phone line. Besides, what if someone else is around in the shop and hears my end of the conversation? You want me to do this for your sister, you gotta come by and talk to me in person. Then we’ll figure out a day and time that’ll work for all three of us, and I’ll figure out a way to get those bolt cutters out of the room without making it obvious on camera. I’ll bring her back here, then snip snip, and she’s a free woman.”

  “And how much would it cost?”

  The Nelirian chuckled, displaying his betel nut-stained teeth once more. “Well, it ain’t cheap, that’s for sure. One collar, two thousand. You decide you want yours off as well, I’ll give you a discount and do ’em both for thirty-five hundred.”

  “Two thousand!” Bensin gasped. “How am I supposed to get two thousand imps?”

  Wenn chuckled again. “That’s not my problem. I told you, it ain’t cheap. If it was cheap, every slave in the empire would be lining up to get their collar cut off, and the authorities would find out, and next thing you know I’d be sporting a shiny new collar of my own. No, if I’m gonna risk my own safety and freedom, I’ve gotta make it worth my while. Two thousand or no deal.”

  Bensin scowled and stared down at a cockroach squeezing out of the drain. Two thousand. It would take him forever to save up that much, and who knew what could happen to Ellie in the meantime?