“Listen,” I say, “what difference does it make? Why the hell can’t you just tell me where you lived? Huh? Why do you have to be so goddamn secret about it?”
“What difference does it make where I lived,” he says. He’s in a pissy mood. When he’s like this I’m not supposed to bother him, he kind of sits around and doesn’t say anything. What, he thinks he’s the only one whose life is screwed up?
“Fine,” I say. “You don’t want to talk to me? I don’t want to talk to you.” And I don’t talk to him. I just leave him right there and I just start ignoring him from then on, take my blanket, sleep in the goddamn bunk by the door even though it’s colder. I mean, I boot Nesly out, make him sleep in the middle bunk so I can have the bottom, I can’t let goddamn Nesly sleep better than I do, not even for Paul. And the bunk is the pits, there’s a draft in from the door and I’ve only got one blanket, so I have to sleep curled up in the corner trying to get all of me under the stupid green blanket.
Paul doesn’t say anything. He has that way, like he expects shit to happen, like he always expected I’d dump him. And the next morning nobody really bothers him. Nobody really bothers me, either, but then, people don’t bother me. So we just go through the day, not talking to each other. I even make Nesly sit at my Singer sewing machine, next to Paul. I see people watching, seeing how pissed I am. Seeing if Paul is out there by himself.
At dinner Paul gets in line, he’s in front of Marisa, who is okay, and Roy and Sal cut in front of Marisa, which gets her real nervous until they start bumping into Paul and she realizes she’s not the target. She looks back at me, I can see her head turn, but I’m making like I’m not really looking. Paul looks back, not knowing what’s going on, and says something, and Sal and Roy laugh. So he gets his beans and they get theirs, and I’m still like I’m not watching, and Sal and Roy are leaning on him. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can tell, they’re over there by the kettles and now since it’s cold there’s always like this steam blowing like smoke.
And Paul doesn’t know what to do, you can see his shoulders up around his ears and he’s all elbows and you can tell that Roy and Sal got him running, but he’s holding his beans and shaking his head, and Sal pulls on the plate, but Paul won’t let go, so it’s kind of a tug of war. Sal’s looking a little stupid, and Paul calls to one of the guards, which is a mistake, because it’s a guy we call Arkansas who doesn’t care what happens as long as he doesn’t have to do anything. He’s this short little guy with a big Adam’s apple and those stupid green guards’ uniforms fit him even worse than they fit the other guards. Paul always says Arkansas is an example of too much inbreeding.
Arkansas goes deaf and pretends he doesn’t know what’s going on and the next thing I know Sal flicks Paul’s plate of beans onto Paul’s face and shirt. And Sal and Roy are laughing, and I guess it’s not as good as getting Paul’s beans but it’s better than nothing, and Paul yells at Arkansas, “Did you see that! Are you going to let them do that!”
Arkansas sort of half reverses his deal gun, so that the metal stock is out there, like he’s going to club someone, and narrows his eyes and says, “Politics, you causing a disturbance?” in this real lazy way.
“I wasn’t doing anything—”
“I don’t like trouble,” Arkansas says.
And Paul must realize that it’s open season when you’re Political, ‘cause he doesn’t say anything after that.
And I’m pretending not to notice anything. Son of a bitch thinks I’m stupid, let him survive out there on his brains.
* * *
Things are really different without me being with Paul. I guess I kind of look around. Not that there’s a whole lot to see. Kansas looks like hard, pale ripples, and the sky is light blue, real far away. The barracks are all in lines and they’re low and long and even though they were painted green, now they’re just all washed out, a kind of darker Kansas color. The only colors are the guards’ uniforms, which are dark green, all stamped The U.S. People’s Army over the pockets.
I feel so small. It was okay when I was busy watching everybody in group thirty-six and worrying about Paul, but now I feel so small, and I have this awful thing in my stomach, all the time. Every time I look out past the guard wire that marks the perimeter, and there’s dry, empty Kansas, it’s like my stomach is trying to swallow me up. I know I’m going to get out of here in the spring, something will come up, it has to come up, I can’t stand it here, I’ll die, I’ll really die out here.
People do die. Nobody from group thirty-six, but sometimes from other groups, like group six, the zombies. They put the body in a green bag in the morning and we see the guards throw them in a truck while we’re standing in line for breakfast, and I realize they’ve been doing that since it started to get cold. I’ve been watching them but it’s like I didn’t really notice.
I start thinking about running out, just running, just trying it. Maybe the perimeter isn’t on all the time. We don’t go near it. Maybe they leave it off. And if they don’t, I’d never know, just zap and then the guards leave you there and Paul thought that you didn’t feel anything and he ought to know, since he’s been zapped.
Crazy thoughts, that scare me, but it’s so tempting. Like my mind doesn’t really believe anything could happen to me.
In political instruction Natalie gives us all lapboards and paper and little short stubby pencils. Even Paul gets a lapboard. That’s real different. Which makes me more nervous, I don’t like different. Different is bad. My first thought is that we’re going to have a test and I know there’s no way I can pass, and I start wondering what they’ll do to me if I flunk. Cut my rations? I’m trying, I’m trying as hard as I can. But that’s what Nesly always says. So I clench my pencil and wait to see what she says.
Natalie says, “We need to see how you are progressing in your self-struggle. Please write about yourself. You can write anything you wish, but we will check to see what you have omitted. Everybody understand?”
No, I don’t understand. I don’t write very good. I mean, I didn’t even finish high school. I don’t know what they want. But nobody else says anything, so I’m not going to say anything. So I look down at the piece of paper. I look up and around the room and I see the twelve rules of self-struggle on the wall. All that stuff about one day at a time, and denial and all that stuff. A couple of people are writing but a lot of people are like me, just sitting there.
Paul is looking at me, and when I look at him, he shakes his head. No.
I frown. “No” what? But if I kept looking at him Natalie will notice and we’ll both be in trouble.
So I look back at my paper. I try to write something.
My name is Janee Scott. I am a theif and I asalted a person. I am …
I don’t know how to spell maladjusted. So I change my sentence.
… a criminol elamint.
That looks wrong, too. So I make the “i” and “e,” “elament” looks better. So now what am I supposed to do? Natalie said that we would be checked for stuff we left out. So maybe I should tell about my arrest? So I write down about the woman I beat up and about stealing her purse.
I used to steal from the grocery, too. In the winter it was easy. I got picked up a couple of times and I spent a couple of nights in jail. So I better tell about that, too. I can’t spell grocery so I write “store.”
Finally I write:
I am sory for my crimes, and for the bad things I did to sosiaty.
I haven’t written very much, not even half the page. Some people are still writing. Some people have written most of a page already. I wonder what else I’m supposed to write. Natalie said we’d get in trouble if we left things out, but I don’t know what kind of things.
What else could I say? Maybe I’m supposed to write about the things I did in camp? About the fight with the walking dead and about standing up in political instruction and saying that my problem was that I was in a labor camp?
Other people are as
king Natalie questions, they kind of wait until she is looking around and then they half raise their hand and she comes over. So I wait and when she looks at me I put my hand up, feeling stupid. Natalie already knows I’m stupid, what difference does it make?
“Are we supposed to write about things we’ve done at camp?” I whisper.
“Whatever you want,” Natalie says.
Somebody else raises their hand and she goes to them.
I don’t know what to do. But she said that we’ll get in trouble for the stuff we leave out. So I try to think of how to say what I’ve done at Protection.
I have a bad atitude. I was in a fite with some pepoul from gr. 6 becase they tried to take my beans. Also, in our meeting, I say that my problim is I am at a laber camp, but my problim is that I am a theif and I asalted the person at the store and I stol food. When I stol food from the store, I hurt sosiaty.
I think the last sentence is pretty good, but when I think I’ve done something right in political instruction, I’m always wrong.
* * *
After the political instruction meeting, Sal starts ragging on Paul about his bunk, telling him he’s going to throw him out. Sal has a bottom bunk, so he’s really just leaning on Paul. I figure if Sal is going to take Paul’s bunk, I’ll take Sal’s, so I grab my blanket and throw it there while Sal is facing down Paul.
Paul is going to come here first, thinking that Sal’s bunk is empty. I’m going to tell him to try near the door. Actually, maybe I’ll let him stay, maybe I won’t, it depends. If he acts mealy-mouthed and just slinks down the door, he can freeze for all I care.
And he will, too, cause Paul’s so tall that his blanket isn’t long enough, and when he scrunches up it seems like his knees always stick out. And he’s thin, the way some tall guys are, even thinner now. We’re all even thinner now. He’s going to end up all bones and joints, like his long fingers, stuck down there with Nesly. And Nesly’ll latch on to him, and he won’t have the sense to tell Nesly to get out of his face.
He’ll feel sorry for Nesly. And he’ll be nice to him, ‘cause Paul’s like that. He’s decent. Even if it drives me nuts sometimes, like maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to know about me before I came here, like he’d prefer to think nice things about me or something. Or maybe that’s not it at all, it’s hard to know what he’s thinking. He’d have to be pretty stupid to think nice things about me. But I do know, if someone doesn’t take care of him, being decent will get him in deep.
And then all the sudden I’m thinking all these things at once, like what if Paul got like the zombies, what if he stopped caring, and I’m wondering if it could happen, although I can just see him, all raggedy-assed and blank-eyed, stick-like and smelling like piss, specially because he’s thin to begin with. And at the same time, I keep thinking of Kansas out there, all pale colored, and us so little, and wondering if I might not end up a zombie, ‘cause worrying about Paul, I never thought about people ending up zombies. I never thought about running for the perimeter. It’s like my cousin said about her kid, when you have a baby, you don’t have a chance to know how screwed up you are because you got to think about milk and diapers and all that shit, and the baby just keeps loving you.
So, not even meaning to, I pop out of Sal’s bunk and just grab my blanket and go to see what’s going on.
And what’s going on is this: Paul has my stick, the one I got from the living dead, which I keep stuck in the frame under our bunk, and he doesn’t really look like he’s sure what to do with it. But Sal isn’t sure how to get around him, because there isn’t a lot of room between the bunks, you know. And Eddy, who has the bottom bunk across from ours, and Marisa, who has the bunk above Eddy’s, are both swearing like mad, telling Sal to leave everything alone, ‘cause if Paul starts swinging that stick in that little space people might get their heads knocked.
So I just walk up and say, “Sal, get back to your own bunk.”
“Stay outta this,” Sal says.
Paul doesn’t say anything, so I just walk past Sal. The stupid dick elbows me and pushes me into the bunk, so I pop out again and grab the stick from Paul and stick it like a sword right into Sal’s stomach and then start smacking him with it, bap, bap, bap, not really hurting him, but real fast, so he can’t get a hold of it, and he puts up his hands trying to keep me off and keeps walking backward until he’s clear of the bunks and I say, “Listen, mess with me again and I’ll put it in your teeth.”
That’s the way you deal with trash.
So then I just walk back and sit down on the bunk and lean down and shove the stick back in the frame.
Paul stands there a moment and I look up at him and say, “What?”
He’s got a kind of funny little smile on his face, but he just says, in that real reasonable way of his, “Are you back or do you just want the bunk?”
“It’s warmer with someone else,” I say. “And I’ve already got you broke in.”
“Okay,” he says. And sits down.
Eddy says, “Shit,” and turns over with his back to us. Marisa is looking over the edge of her bunk. Marisa is with Kirk, I don’t know where he’s been all through this.
“Janee,” Paul says, real quiet.
I look up at him, wondering, wondering what he’s going to say, and feeling kind of funny, and maybe a little embarrassed, just because of the way he said my name.
“What did you write?” he says.
For a moment I don’t follow, because it isn’t what I expect at all. Then I figure out he means that stupid thing at political instruction, and without even thinking I kind of look over toward where the twelve rules are written on the wall, even though you can’t see them from the bunk.
I’m irritated. Here I just saved his balls and he’s going to play teacher games. “None of your business,” I say.
“Janee—” he says, and takes my shoulder and kind of pushes my hair away from my face, nice, something he’s never done before. Not like humping, but nice, like just for me, Janee. “It’s important, what did you write?”
I shrug. “Just about being a thief and about fighting with the guys from group six and then about the time I said that my big problem was being in a labor camp.”
He nods. “Good. When they give it back to you, just write the same thing, only in different words.”
“Why are they going to give it back to me?”
“It’s something they do,” he says. He’s real tense, real scared. I can’t figure out what the big deal is. I know he’s rattled from Sal, he doesn’t know that the Sals of this world are really just looking for someone to tell them what they can and can’t do.
“Hey,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. Come on, sit down here with me. It’s cold enough in this barn.” Saying that makes me smile. “My mother used to say that,” I tell him. “She’d say, ‘Close the door, it’s cold enough in this barn.’”
He smiles a little. “Mothers say that sort of thing. Mine used to say, ‘Close the door, you weren’t raised in a barn.’”
“Must be a Pennsylvania thing,” I say, even though I’ve heard it before, people in Cleveland say it.
“Yeah,” he says, “must be a Harrisburg thing.”
“You know,” I say, real quiet, “you can be a real pain in the ass, but sometimes, you’re all right.”
“Janee,” he says, “you’ve got to be real careful. I don’t know why you adopted me, but you don’t want me telling you things. You think you do, but I tell you about my life and then I’ll be talking about things, things I think and believe, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in a labor camp. You’ve got to just say back to them whatever they say to you, okay?”
He looks sad, he looks lonely. Well I’m lonely, too. All the time I’m lonely here. “Most of what they say is crap,” I say, and I can feel myself getting irritated at him, getting irritated at all of it, I’m cold all the time, and hungry, damn it.
“I didn’t say you had to believe it,” he whispers.
&
nbsp; * * *
Finally, they start the little electric heaters in the factory where we sew quilts, mostly because it’s so cold that our fingers are stiff and our production is falling. It doesn’t make the place warm, but I can’t see my breath anymore.
I think about being warm all the time. I get these bruises on my legs, most of us do, from the cold. Chilblains. They hurt, real bad. Get up in the morning and it hurts to move my legs, and when I’m standing out there for roll call, the wind comes whipping over those little ripply Kansas hills and my legs hurt so much I have tears in my eyes. Then we cripple on over for breakfast and take it into the factory. Paul and I sit together against the wall, one blanket around our shoulders, the other across our legs, and eat.
I still haven’t gotten to 180 quilts. I get 177 once and Corbin calls time to quit. I’m so mad I almost cry. Really, I never understood that saying, but I can feel the hot tears. I want to hit something. Nesly’s doing real bad. He’s coughing all the time, and spitting. He’s on half rations, because his production is so low. I know when I’m losing my concentration because I can hear Nesly back there, coughing his lungs out.
I sew quilts. I can mostly sew without thinking, just zip, zip, zip, zip. I think about a lot of things. I think about what Paul said, about saying whatever they want me to say. And I think about what they want me to say. And I think about the question he asked me, when I said that it seemed to me that the Indians had it the best, that factory workers, and serfs and people like me, we all had it just about the same.
I keep trying to think about what would make it better. Everybody has to work, or people wouldn’t have anything. Even Indians had to hunt or something. Like quilts, there’s a lot in a quilt. There’s the cottony stuff in the middle, somebody has to make that, and then somebody has to put it in the middle of the quilt. Somebody like us has to make the plain part, that they put the stuffing in. And somewhere, somebody has to put together all the little pieces of cloth and make the top part. Sometimes I imagine the way my plain shells will look when the top goes on them. I don’t know if they’ll be the kind with the patches, or if they’ll be the ones with the stars, or the fans, or the pin wheels.… There’s a lot of different patterns.
The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Tenth Annual Collection Page 56
