by Ruth White
“What do you think they would have done to us,” David asks, “had they been able to lay hands on us?”
Nobody answers, and we huddle close against the night air.
• 7 •
A thick haze hangs over the land, so that daylight doesn’t wake us. But a police officer with a nightstick does.
“Did you spend the night in the park?”
We scramble to our feet, brush off our clothes, and smooth them with nervous fingers.
The officer is tall and muscular. His hair, poking out from under his hat, is blond, his eyes blue. His uniform is similar to ones we’ve seen before. On his shoulder patch are the words Fashion City Police Department. His face is a study in bewilderment.
“G-good morning, sir.” Gramps stutters a bit.
I become aware of sounds from the city.
“Morning to you!” the officer returns the greeting. “Where do you come from?”
This question is directed at Gramps, and he doesn’t know what to say. He clears his throat, glances behind him, jerks his head in the direction of the gazebo, and mumbles, “Back there.”
“Oh! You have escaped from the Western Province?” the cop says with something like awe in his voice. “Really?”
I think he takes our silence for a yes.
“You’re the third batch this year,” the cop goes on. “And I have to say you all are looking pretty decent compared to the other ones. They were real beat-up and filthy dirty, having to walk all that way through the barbed wire and nasty weather, you know?”
After a pause, Mom says, “We managed to avoid both.” Which is true.
“Well, good for you.” The officer does a sharp turn on his heel, points to the city, and says, “Go down to the housing authority—it’s the big red building on the right. There’s a sign out front. They’ll give you a place to live and some food and clothing rations. Tell them Officer Brent sent you.”
“We cannot pay?” Gramps inflects his sentence so that it comes out like a question.
“Not to worry, my friend,” Officer Brent says gently as he places a hand on Gramps’s arm. “The Fathers take care of the people here.”
After all we’ve been through, I don’t know why this cop makes me feel like crying by saying something nice. But I don’t cry. It seems Mom, Gramps, and David are also touched. We glance around at the bushes and the trees.
“Is there work to be had?” Gramps asks.
“Of course. The people at the housing authority will direct you to the employment agency, the food market, the mall—wherever you need to go.”
“Thank you kindly, sir,” Gramps says as he shoulders the backpack.
“Just one more thing,” Officer Brent says as he unclips a metal device from his waistband. “I have to check your bag for weapons. Just a precaution.”
Oh, no, no. He’ll find the Carriage. I look at Mom. She looks back at me with wide eyes. David is nervously moving his hands in and out of his pockets. Gramps just seems helpless. He hands the pack over to the policeman.
Officer Brent pushes a button on his device and a beam of light shoots out. He runs the light carefully over the backpack. We hear a faint buzz, but no alarm bells and no terrifying words such as “Put your hands above your heads” from the officer.
“All clear” is what he says, and that with a smile on his face. “Welcome to Fashion City, good folks. You’ll like it here. Everybody does.”
He hands the backpack to Gramps, turns on his heel, and leaves us alone. We all let out our breath and look at each other.
“I was sure he was going to open it,” Mom says as she slumps against a tree. “My knees are shaking.”
“How easy was that?” David says, grinning. “We’re home free.”
Gramps shoulders the backpack. “We’ll see. Housing authority, first stop.”
After a quick head check, Mom says, “I put the vinegar vials in our jeans pockets in case we need them, and I have baseball caps for everybody in the backpack. But let’s not wear the caps right now. Let’s wait to see if they’re appropriate in this place.”
For the second time we walk to the park entrance and look out at the street. Now we see a real city, bustling with cars, buses, taxis, pedestrians.
As we walk down the street, the police officer’s hokey words echo in my head and comfort me. The Fathers take care of the people here.
Lots of people are friendly and say good morning to us. We crane our necks as tourists might do, but I don’t see anything unusual here. There’s a street, sidewalks and curbs, brick buildings, stone buildings, wooden buildings, different kinds of vehicles, traffic lights, benches at bus stops, advertisements. Everything seems kinda outdated, but for a city, it’ll do, I guess.
Several large billboards advertising a product called Lotus catch our eye.
TAKE IT FOR A HEADACHE OR A HEARTACHE.
JUST ONE LOTUS FOR A DIFFERENCE YOU WILL NOTICE!
A HOLIDAY CAN BLOAT US,
AND THAT’S WHY WE REACH FOR LOTUS!
TAKE LOTUS IF YOU’RE TIRED
LOTUS IF YOU’RE FIRED
AND SOON YOU’LL BE REHIRED!
Ahead of us and towering over the street is the largest billboard of them all. We stop in our tracks to look at this smiling twenty-foot-tall family—mother, father, boy, girl—seated in front of a television set, obviously engrossed in the show they are watching. The caption reads:
THE FAMILY HOUR
ENTERTAINMENT FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY
EACH NIGHT AT 8:30
PRESENTED BY THE FATHERS
“Isn’t it lovely?” someone says, and we turn to see a small older lady dressed neatly in gray. She has paused beside Mom to study the billboard.
I can see that Mom is weighing her response. I know for a fact that she has never considered any billboard lovely. She thinks they are eyesores, and this one is bigger than most. But, hey, this is a whole new world, and it’s our first day.
“Quite lovely indeed,” Mom says.
“And it serves as a gentle reminder to each of us on our way to work each day,” the gray lady says.
“A reminder?” Gramps says.
“A reminder of all the things the Fathers have done for us!” the woman gushes.
“Quite so!” Gramps agrees with her heartily.
The woman waves a small hand at us and continues on her way. The four of us look at each other with questions in our eyes, then move on.
“Hey, there are some kids with baseball caps on,” David comments. “I wonder if they have logos on them for certain teams.”
But as we draw near, we can see that the caps are plain like ours, or they have some dumb slogan like Praise the Fathers. Still, it’s good to see that baseball caps, jeans, and T-shirts are in.
Soon we find ourselves in front of a red building on which a sign reads: FASHION CITY HOUSING AUTHORITY. We enter.
Inside is a large office with some employees working at computers; others are talking on the phone. A smiling middle-aged woman at the first station stands up to greet us. The badge attached to her navy blouse reads, HI! MY NAME IS AMANDA HARP.
Amanda Harp seems about to bubble over with good cheer. “May I help you?”
“Officer Brent sent us here to apply for housing,” Mom says to the woman.
“Is something wrong with your current quarters?” Amanda coos.
“We just arrived,” Mom says, “from …”
I know what Mom is thinking. It seems ridiculous to say we have come from the Western Province when we really don’t know where it is, or what it is.
But Gramps jumps right in there. “We escaped from the Western Province!”
One of Amanda’s hands flies to her heart. “Is that right!” She is so bowled over, she can’t say another word at the moment. Then, collecting herself, she narrows her hazel eyes and leans in close to whisper, “Are people really eating rats over there?”
David and I exchange significant glances. Eating rats?
&nb
sp; “What sort of accommodations can we expect?” Mom tries to change the subject.
But Amanda will not be sidetracked. “From the Western Province. I declare!” she says, looking at us with awe on her face. It seems she can’t get over it. “Is it really as gross as they say?”
“We prefer not to talk about it,” Mom says softly, and she’s totally believable.
“Oh, yes, of course! Of course!” Amanda comes to her senses and quickly begins a search on her computer. “Now, let me see,” she muses aloud. “Two adults and two children—a girl and a boy. We have a three-bedroom, two-bath available in Sector B, Building 9, Apartment 603. I just need to get some information first. Names and ages?”
“I am sixty years old!” Gramps lies with confidence, shaving off five years, as usual. “My name is Sam Lane. This is my daughter, Linda Blue, a widow, age thirty-seven, and her two children, Meggie, eleven, and David, thirteen.”
“And the season of each birthday?”
The season? It’s a strange question, but one by one we answer, and Amanda enters the data into her computer.
“Escaped from Western Province,” she says aloud as she enters that information as well. Then she turns back to us and gives us her brightest smile. “The apartment is furnished with everything you need—furniture, dishes, linens, you name it. You’ll find directions to Sector B at the bus stop. Welcome to Fashion City, Mr. Lane, Mrs. Blue, Meggie, and David. I’m sure you’ll like it here. Everybody does.”
“What about employment?” Gramps asks. “Officer Brent said jobs are available?”
“That’s very true,” Amanda Harp chirps. “You need to go to the employment agency to apply. It’s the brick building just up the street.”
“Officer Brent also said something about food and clothing rations,” Mom says.
“Certainly! Where is your head, Amanda?” Amanda chides herself. Then she tears two sheets of what look like postage stamps from a black book. “This ought to do until your first payday. And if you’re hungry now, you can use them at any restaurant.”
Mom takes the stamps and thanks Amanda.
“Oh, don’t thank me. Thank the Fathers!” Amanda says.
• 8 •
Outside, the sun has burned off much of the smog. Mom points to the only brick building in sight and says, “The employment office.”
We walk down the street, and Gramps puts an arm around my shoulders. “Hungry, Meggie B.?”
“I could eat a pizza the size of a piano.”
“Well, maybe we can find one when we’re done at the employment agency.”
I guess this won’t be so bad. The people certainly seem happy. We can start all over again here in the city, and perhaps later find a home in the countryside.
At the Fashion City employment agency there’s a small stoop in front of the door, with five steps leading up to it. In the window is a sign—NO CHILDREN ALLOWED.
Mom and Gramps look at me and David, then at each other.
“You go in first and I’ll stay with the kids,” Mom says to Gramps.
“We’re not babies, you know!” David says. “We can stay out here alone.”
“We don’t know anything about this place,” Mom argues. “I prefer not to leave you unsupervised.”
“They will be perfectly safe, madam,” comes a big booming voice, and there is Officer Brent walking up behind us, twirling his nightstick. His face is red, and wet with sweat, but he is smiling. “We proudly proclaim ourselves the safest city on the planet.”
“On the whole planet?” I speak up, hoping he will say which planet we’re on.
“Yes, the safest city on the whole planet. No violent crime, no poverty, no disease.”
Then he turns to Mom and Gramps and says, “Go on now, both of you. If you’re concerned, I’ll stay close by until you’re through in there.”
“Well, all right,” Mom agrees reluctantly, with a bit of worry in her eyes. Then to me and David she says, “Stay where I can see you when I look out the window, okay?”
Mom and Gramps disappear into the building, and David and I sit down on the top step to wait.
“I’ll be walking up and down this sidewalk,” Officer Brent tells us, and strolls away.
We watch people passing. Many of them smile or speak to us. A young couple alternately talk and pant as they jog. Several people ride by on bicycles. I have to say it’s a right pleasant and peaceful scene.
“No crime, no poverty, no disease,” David says as we watch the people.
“That doesn’t seem likely, does it?” I say.
“No crime and no poverty I suppose is possible,” he says. “But no disease?”
We puzzle on that one until our thoughts are interrupted by a big white bus lumbering down the street. There are purple letters stenciled on the side, proudly proclaiming that this is
VACATION 65!
The gray heads tell us that old people occupy this bus. They are waving and calling out as they move down the street. It’s nice to see old people happy and excited about going on vacation.
Many passersby stop to wave at the people on the bus. So we wave too.
“Goodbye! Goodbye!”
Vacation 65 halts at a bus stop where a man with a shiny bald head is waiting. It appears that his children and grandchildren have come to see him off. All of them laugh and cry as they hug him.
“Have a wonderful time!”
“Praise the Fathers!”
“Farewell, Grandpapa. Farewell!”
But suddenly the man clutches a young woman, probably his daughter, clings to her, and cries like I did on my first day of school. It looks like this grandpapa does not want to go on vacation without his family. The woman reassures him, and eventually he settles down, steps onto the bus, and doesn’t turn back. We can see the other seniors greeting him. As the bus moves on, the family members wipe their eyes and drift away.
“Will you look at that!” David cries suddenly.
My eyes follow David’s, and there walking toward us on the sidewalk is this guy who looks for all the world like a young Elvis Presley. He’s wearing a silky blue shirt and tight pants of the same material. He stops, takes his guitar out of its case, and then smiles and hums as he tunes up.
Officer Brent is nowhere in sight, and we leave the stoop, totally forgetting Mom’s orders. When we come up close to Elvis, we can see a few coins already in his guitar case, which is lying open before him on the pavement.
I’m only vaguely aware of other people gathering around as Elvis starts picking and singing “Blue Suede Shoes.” I notice he is actually wearing blue suede shoes. Suddenly it seems like he’s singing just to me, and his mellow voice and curled lip make me weak.
“It is Elvis,” David whispers to me.
It certainly is, and the up-close-and-personal Elvis is more gorgeous than any picture of him I’ve ever seen. I can dig how teens in the fifties lost their minds over him.
Other fans gather. Some people start clapping in time to the music. One young couple starts dancing. Elvis begins his famous hip rolls, which I have seen on old television shows a few times. I am so blown away that it takes me several minutes to realize that some of the people have started looking over their shoulders nervously. Then they begin to edge away from the scene, but I can tell they really want to stay.
My attention goes back to Elvis, and pretty soon I’m breathlessly lost again in his magic spell. I have read that Elvis met Priscilla when she was only fourteen, and fell in love with her at first sight. Of course they didn’t marry until she was twenty, but my point is this: suppose that on this Earth there is no Priscilla for him, but a Meggie instead?
That’s when my sweet daydream is shattered by Officer Brent barging into the crowd waving a nightstick.
“Okay, break it up, folks!”
Elvis’s audience vanishes just like that. Only David and I remain. Elvis, obviously frustrated, gives one last grating strum on his guitar, then places it inside the case and closes it
up.
“What did I tell you I was going to do the next time I caught you performing in such a manner?” Officer Brent says to Elvis in a mean voice.
Elvis silently stretches forth both hands. The officer produces a pair of handcuffs, seemingly from nowhere, and snaps them into place around Elvis’s wrists. My jaw drops. He’s arresting Elvis Presley? A police cruiser pulls up to the curb, and Elvis is escorted toward it.
“You’re a magnificent performer, Elvis!” The words burst suddenly from David. “Bravo!”
And he claps as hard as he can. I join him. Officer Brent scowls at us.
Elvis turns and gives us his famous cockeyed grin. “Thank you very much.”
A curly lock of black hair falls over his forehead as he climbs into the backseat of the police cruiser. Hastily David picks up the guitar in its case where it remains on the sidewalk and places it at Elvis’s feet in the car. Then Officer Brent closes the car door, and Elvis is hauled away.
Puzzled, I stand with David and Officer Brent, watching the patrol car drive away.
“Why was he arrested?” David asks, obviously irked.
“You saw him, and heard him!” Officer Brent growls. “And still you ask me that?” He stands sternly with hands on hips, glaring at David. “And furthermore,” he scolds, “I don’t like your tone or your attitude, young man! You should not have clapped for him. I know you are from a savage place, and your ignorance is your excuse, but now you have been warned. Okay?”
When David speaks again, his face is red, but his tone is more polite. “But if you please, sir, that was Elvis.”
“Yeah, I think that’s his name. Elvis Preston—or something like that.”
“What were the charges?” I speak up.
“Gross uniqueness, of course!” Officer Brent exclaims, as if I should know this. “And of the worst kind too!”
Gross uniqueness? Is he kidding?
“What do you suppose would happen if we let that go on and never tried to put a stop to it?” Officer Brent asks.
