The Kingdom of Heaven

by 19

  She got up and fled into the kitchen. It was adorable, almost a tantrum.

  He knew better than to follow her.

  He picked up his plate, and concentrated on eating. It wasn't hard–he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually had food that was cooked by someone who knew how.

  She came back with a plate of her own, not looking at him, not speaking to him.

  –I'm too old for you, he said, still looking at the eggs on his plate as though he were mesmerized. I want this so bad that when I finally manage to talk both of us out of it, I will probably die.

  –How old are you?

  –Twenty-eight. A guess. Almost random.

  –My mother was fifteen when she had me.

  –You don't understand what my life is like.

  –Well, maybe I would like to understand, she snapped, and set her plate down too hard.

  –All right, he said quietly.

  She had opened her mouth to counter his argument. –All right?

  He stared at the dinosaurs on his glass. –If you want me to come and see you, I'll come.

  –Okay, she whispered. –When?

  –When do you leave?

  –Tonight. It's safer to walk in the dark.

  –How far is it?

  –Um. About an hour.

  –I'll drive you.

  She shook her head, looking frightened. –If they saw you at my house at night–

  –They won't, he promised. –I'll drop you off.

  –There's a...revival, tomorrow, and maybe you could go to that. It would look better if we were out in public.

  A revival. Now there was number two or so on his top-ten list of things he had absolutely NO desire to do. Number one was self-castration with a rusty spoon.

  But she was right. Morally, socially, whatever, it probably would look better.

  –I'll be there, he told her.

  –What do you do?

  He looked up at her again. –Excuse me?

  –I mean, what do you usually do? Work? Or music, or something? I just wondered, if you were...an artist... She stopped herself.

  –No. I'm not an artist. I can nail wood together without breaking my fingers. I can play a guitar slightly better than most house cats. I tell stories, he said.

  –Will you tell me one?

  –Yes. Later. You have to give me time to think of one.

  –Don't you already have some?

  He gave her a smile that he didn't like the feel of. –I only use them once. Which finger did I bite?

  She blinked, and showed him.

  He brought her hand to his mouth, and kissed the finger in question. –I forgot to do that last night, he said, and kept hold of her hand too long.

  –I think she likes you.

  –What? he said, distracted, watching Mary trying to feed the chickens without falling over any of them.

  –She likes you. A lot. She stares at you. Sort of like you're staring at her now, except in a girl way, Jordan said.

  –Oh. He shrugged, dropping into his pretending again. –She's cute, but it won't work. She's too young, and I can't live in...that, town.

  –So take her with us, Jordan suggested, brightly.

  –Where?

  –The Sanctuary. Remember?

  He sighed. –I remember. Believe me. How could I forget with you harping in my ear about it all the time? He shoved Jordan off the steps, to show that he was kidding.

  He wanted to take her home, because he would get to be with her. He didn't want to take her home, because that was one less day he would have to spend with her, and he was pretty sure those days were few in number.

  The sun didn't give a damn what he wanted; it went from east to west like always, When it was a pink gleam on the horizon, he went into the kitchen where she was drying dishes. –When should we go?

  She set down the plate she was working on. –Not yet. Her voice was too stretched for it to be convincing. She didn't turn around.

  He raised his hand, standing behind her, hesitated. –Is it okay if I touch you?

  –Don't hurt me.

  He would find and kill the man that made her ask that. He put his hand on her shoulder, slid it to the back of her neck under her hair. Quiet. And problems with his throat.

  –I won't. Not ever.

  She sighed. Every muscle in her body seemed to unfold.

  He put both hands on her shoulders. She was so small, a miracle, perfect. He ran his hands down her arms, touching her with the backs of his fingers, his palms, very lightly. She made a slight motion, as if she had drawn in a deep breath very quickly.

  He stepped closer to her, leaned down and licked at her hair, inhaling her, moved her hair over her shoulder and pressed a single kiss to the back of her neck. He wrapped his arms around her–carefully, not wanting to brush against her breasts and scare her–and whispered, –I like you.

  Her hands came up, closed around his. –I like you, too.

  –We should go, he said, not moving.

  –Is it safe? she asked, her voice tiny.

  –Is anything?

  (11)

  The truck, for some unknown reason, actually started. He fibbed and told Mary that it still wouldn't go past first, when he knew it probably would. He wanted this drive to take as long as possible.

  She put her hand on his knee, nearly causing him to destroy the transmission.

  –Where's my story?

  The story his brain had come up with at his request wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. It usually worked that way. He had to use it, though. It was the only one he had, and until he used it he would not receive another.

  –It's a weird story.

  –Now I really want to hear it, she said, using that evil, coaxing, liquid tone of voice that only women had. Now he understood why Van Gogh had cut off his ear. Some girl had used that voice to say, please, dearest?

  He drew in his breath, and began it.

  –Once upon a time on a planet in another galaxy, there was a race of beings called the Mi'kaar. They were kind of like purple monkeys with four eyes.

  He waited to see if she would laugh at that, but she didn’t.

  They lived in platforms that they built in trees that were hundreds of feet high. They built most of the houses right near the top of the tree, because that was where the fruit grew. That was the only food on their entire planet.

  He paused, thinking of the right words. –There was enough fruit for all of them. They didn't have wars. They didn't really have rules. They just ate, and slept, and made love, and looked up at the stars and wondered what they were, and whether or not they would ever fall so they could look at one up close.

  She made a miniature noise at the making love part. She also, incidentally, still had her hand on his knee. He wondered if she knew enough about stick shifts to call him on it if he ground the gears on purpose to make a scary noise and stop the car.

  No. Sixteen. Quit it, brain. Perfectly old enough to marry in most of the towns he had ever been in, yes. It was less her age and more the space between them that bothered him.

  That should have bothered him.

  –One day, one of them fell out of the tree. He didn't die or anything. He just landed on the ground. He was scared to death. The ground didn't sway in the wind, and he was all alone down there. He cried, and he yelled and yelled until they heard him.

  –Some of them said, we can't help you. We might fall down there, too. And some of them tried using branches. Nothing was long enough for him to reach. So they invented knots. They tied branches together and made a ladder. But it broke, and so did the next one, and more and more of them fell.

  –Finally, they gave up. They just dropped fruit, and leaves for beds, and they talked to each other, shouting back and forth. That went on for about a year, Earth time.

  –After a while, they didn't talk to each other as much.

  –And then they didn't talk at all.

  –The Upperdwellers still dropped fruit and
leaves, but they did it at night.

  –Years went by. The Lowerdwellers had children, and the Upperdwellers had children. And their children had children. And one day, they didn't drop any fruit. And they didn't drop any the next day, or the next.

  –The Lowerdwellers finally started shouting up at the Uppers. They said, you have to give us food! We are starving! And the Uppers said back, We can't give you any. There are too many of us. We will starve. And besides, you don't deserve any food.

  He paused, letting her put all that together. She thought about it, and nodded.

  –The Lowers said, What do you mean? We don't understand.

  –And the Uppers said, We have figured out those shiny things. We call them gods. And they made you live down there away from them because they don't like you, because you are all bad people. We live up here near them, where there is food, because we are their chosen people. We won't feed you, any more, because our gods wouldn't like it.

  –Did they starve? she asked, quietly.

  He shook his head. –They invented fire.

  She made some little noise at that, looking out the windshield at the blue dunes.

  –And they burned down every single one of the trees. And they ate all the fruit that was left, and then they ate the bodies of the dead Upperdwellers. And then they invented war, and for a while, they ate each other. And finally, the last ones starved, on a world that was empty. And the stars are looking down at their wasteland, right now.

  He looked at her, still driving. –Do you still want to understand what my life is like?

  –I do understand, now, she said.

  Silence around the sound of the engine.

  –I wish...she began.

  He waited, and then prompted, –You wish what?

  –I just wish you would do it again, what you did in the kitchen. When you just...had your arms around me. I liked that. It made everything...better, somehow.

  He stopped the truck.

  Turned off the ignition. Turned off the headlights.

  She took her hand off his knee, scooted over against the passenger side door, staring at him with her eyes wide and scared in her pale nightblue face. –You said you wouldn't hurt me– Pleading. Shaking.

  –Oh, Mar, no. I'm not going to hurt you. Shhh, he said, reflex moving his hands towards her, caution making him pull away from her again. –It's okay.

  Her hand had been on the handle of the door. She had been ready to run, out into the night, out into the desert. Away from him. Afraid of him.

  –Please don't. Please don't ever be afraid of me. Please, he told her, begging her, old wounds making his eyes ache in his head.

  He held out his hands again.

  She took them, trembling like she was cold.

  –I just...don't know what you expect of me. I've never...even...I don't even know any guys. When you...kissed my neck, she said, looking down, away from his eyes, –The only other man who has ever kissed me is Spectre, and he kisses the top of my head, and that's not the same, and I felt so...I didn't want you to stop, and...

  He put his fingertips on her mouth.

  She stopped.

  He started to say something, anything, and instead he leaned over and kissed her. She tried to back up, and he cupped her chin and kept the fingers of his free hand wound in hers. It was awkward and gentle and she had her eyes open, her eyelashes brushing his face, her lips soft and startled.

  ...sixteen sixteen sixteen stop okay stop okay STOP

  He stopped, long before he wanted to.

  –You win, she said, sounding faded and weak.

  –So kiss me back, and we'll be even.

  She did, missing a little and hitting the corner of his mouth, and he moved her head and kissed her harder, still carefully.

  This time, he had to stop her. –We have to go.

  –Okay. She moved back, went to touch her mouth, and didn't. She gave him a crooked smile.

  And the truck didn't start. Didn't even turn over. Click, and that was all. Just click.

  Swearing didn't work. The headlights did not work. Popping the hood open (loud embarrassing creak) and poking aimlessly at the truck's insides didn't work either. That was pretty much the limit of his automotive knowledge. And it was almost completely dark, now.

  –Whore, he muttered finally, forced the hood closed, and aimed an immature kick at the left front tire. –How much farther is it? he called to Mary.

  –About a mile, she said. She was sitting on the tailgate, swinging her feet. She had giggled at him twice, due to profanity so infuriated it was incoherent. She didn't seem angry.

  He was dying of humiliation.

  He leaned back in, put it in neutral. –I'm going to push this fucker. Get in, he told her.

  –You can't, she said, jumping down. –Not in sand.

  –I can too, he said, and thought or my ego will collapse and perish. –Get in.

  She did.

  He managed about twenty feet before something incredibly painful happened to his back, and he stumbled down onto one knee, hissing through his teeth.

  She hopped out, damn near running. –Are you okay? What happened?

  –Ow, he told her, intelligently. Then, –I can't possibly push this thing anywhere.

  –It was sweet of you to try, she offered.

  –It was traumatically stupid for me to try, he said, groping around until he managed to sit down.

  She pushed him forward, pulled up the back of his shirt.

  He got as far as –Don't. Then her hands were on his back. He bit his bottom lip and didn't say a word.

  He squirmed for her to stop after a few minutes. He could not take that anymore, those small soft sweet-sixteen hands, being so gentle, knowing just where the pain was the worst.

  He stood up, taking her hands, doing the pulling himself. It hurt so much that a yellow arc spun across his vision. He staggered. She put her arm around his waist, steadying him. –Can you make it, or do you want to sleep here? Or I could go back for Jordan...

  –No. I can make it, he insisted.

  They started walking. He let her help him, partly because he was in agony, and partly because it was nice to have her that close to him, to have an excuse to touch her.

  –I can't do this. I'll get you in trouble, he said, after a long while.

  –I live almost outside of town. My dad managed to move it that much when it started getting bad, she said. –You should have seen it. Six horses and two tractors pulling it.

  –Still.

  –As long as we don't have the truck, they won't have the sound of an engine to get nosy about, she pointed out. –Just don't sing at the top of your lungs, and we'll be fine.

  –So much for my plan. I was going to serenade you with Metallica, he told her.

  She laughed. He had noticed a strange new tendency in himself to deliberately say things just to hear the sound of that laugh. Even silly things.

  –I have morphine at the house, she offered.

  –Ooh, fuck. I might have to take you up on that, he said. He was having a completely inappropriate discussion with himself about whether it was a good thing that his back was destroyed, because he couldn't try anything, or a bad thing, because he couldn't try anything. Sixteen, he told himself again, very firmly this time. She smelled like, Heaven. Why had that sixteen thing been important again?

  –It's not much farther. Ten minutes, she said.

  –Don't you feel kind of like you've fallen into a bad screenplay? Boy's car breaks down. Boy goes to girl's house.

  –There's no ax murderer in this screenplay, is there?

  He tried not to laugh. She was smart. Funny. Quick. Damn near dragging him along. –If there is, you'll have to fight him. I'll just lay wherever you drop me and whine.

  –Will you scream and act distressed?

  –Absolutely.

  –Deal, she told him.

  Mary's trailer looked like a space capsule. It was a pill-shaped aluminum thing that had once been silv
er, with the windows that opened out into slats with a crank. It was tiny, about thirty feet long, if that. Still, the steps in front of it were swept and painted, and the sand was raked smooth. The little cacti that sometimes produced bulbous pink alien flowers were growing in a windowbox at the end, and there was an amateur rock garden on the ground underneath it, a half-circle of carefully arranged gravel and shells.

  He had a dizzy vision of a jerry-rigged swingset beside that, in blinding sunlight, with two little girls with long dark hair swinging and singing a rhyme about a man from Leeds, and laughing. And one of them had Mary's cheekbones and the other had his mismatched eyes. He could still see the night through the hallucination, and he knew it was only a thing that might be, a ghost of a possible future.

  Or an impossible future.

  She went up the stairs in front of him, and opened the door without a key. He followed her in.

  –Hang on, she told him. He stood there in the darkness with one hand pressed to his back, surrounded by the shadows of unfamiliar shapes and the smell of lilies and mildew and something else that was just her smell, the smell of her dwelling place, of the place where she slept and cried and ate and showered and read books and lived.

  He was certain he shouldn't be there.

  The flash of a match, then an orange flickering glow. She had lit a kerosene lamp. She turned the flame up, and the trailer brightened. –No electricity at night, unless it's an emergency. It's the law. And I don't have any light bulbs, anyway, she explained.

  To the right was a little place that had probably once held a booth as a table. Strips of the floor were bare wood here, framed by peeling tile, and she had replaced whatever she had ripped out there with a little dressing table with a round mirror. Just across from that was a little phone-booth kitchen, and a door left of that that was probably a bathroom.

  The left side of the house was the bedroom. A sagging bed devoured most of the space. It was neatly made with a blanket patterned with faded pink roses and a small mountain of mismatched pillows. There were little figurines here and there, of unicorns and angels and dragons, and curtains on the tiny windows. Two of the kitchen cabinets were doorless, and filled with books. Everything was impeccably clean, even things so worn they had become the same color as the desert.