by Ruth White
We cannot imagine.
“I’ll tell you what! Next thing you know, others would have those revolting sideburns! And … and be scavenging silk clothes and blue shoes from God knows where. And they’d be singing catchy songs in the streets and wiggling in time to the music!”
The man is serious.
“And there’s no telling what that might lead to,” Officer Brent goes on. “Other dark and dangerous things, I’m sure. It’s a terrible influence on children like you. Just terrible! Now mind your mom and go back to the stoop.”
Officer Brent abruptly turns from us and continues walking his beat. David and I plod back to perch on the steps and wait for Mom and Gramps. A long silence ensues, until at last David turns to me and says, “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”
• 9 •
“We saw Elvis Presley!” David and I shout as Mom and Gramps come out of the employment agency. We’re practically jumping up and down with excitement, but they’re not one bit impressed.
Mom takes the time to fold up a piece of paper and tuck it into a back pocket of her jeans before saying, “It’s almost lunchtime, and I know you must be hungry.”
“Yes, we should find a place to eat,” Gramps agrees.
Mom and Gramps start walking toward the busier part of the city, leaving us to trail behind. Sometimes they just don’t listen.
“Mom! Gramps! We’re not kidding!” I cry. “We really saw Elvis Presley in person!”
That does the trick. Both Gramps and Mom stop and stare at me.
“He wasn’t an impersonator?” Mom says.
“No!” we say.
“I don’t think so,” David adds.
“He looked like the real thing to me,” I say. “And his name was Elvis.”
“And he was young,” David says. “About twenty or so.”
Mom is frowning, and Gramps rubs the top of his balding head, muttering.
“Keep it under your hats for now,” Mom says. “We want to hear all about it over lunch.”
Just down the street we find a sandwich shop called—what else? The Sandwich Shop. The menu is simple: hot dogs, hamburgers, BLTs, spaghetti, colas, and chocolate and vanilla ice cream, but no pizza. So David and I order hamburgers. Mom and Gramps have BLTs. We all have colas. Fast food is a rare treat, as Mom usually doesn’t approve. But today is certainly a different kind of day for all of us, and Mom says not a word.
“Did you find employment?” David asks.
“First you must tell us about Elvis,” Gramps says.
So, between the two of us, we recount the tale of Elvis Presley’s street show, and what followed, pausing only when the waitress comes to bring our food. She, like Amanda Harp, seems overjoyed with her job and can’t do enough for us.
“That’s truly a bizarre story,” Mom says when we have finished. “Did he actually say ‘gross uniqueness’ without smiling?”
“He was serious,” I say.
She and Gramps give each other a look.
“Maybe we’re being taken in by one of those hidden-camera TV shows,” Mom says.
“So, did you find a job?” I ask.
“Yes, factory jobs,” Gramps says. “Both of us.”
“Factory jobs?” David and I speak at the same time.
“What kind of factory?” I ask.
“Clothing. We’ll be notified when to report for learning the sewing machines.”
“You’re going to make clothes?” I’ve always loved fashion. It’s something Kitty and I had in common. When we were together, we never failed to notice and comment on what people were wearing.
“It appears to be so,” Gramps responds. “Apparently Fashion City derives its name from the clothing factory, which is the chief industry here.”
“Well, I certainly hope you’ll make trendier clothes in that factory than I’ve seen so far in this place!” I say. “Except for Elvis, everybody’s wardrobe has been bor-or-ing. No bright colors. They have no sense of style whatsoever.”
I don’t mind when Mom, Gramps, and David chuckle at me, because it’s good to hear them laugh.
“I think we’ll have little choice in the matter,” Mom says. “We’ll sew what we’re given to sew.”
“But you’re teachers!” David exclaims.
“Yeah, don’t they need teachers?” I ask.
“It seems the Fathers have all the teaching jobs sewn up tight,” Gramps says. “No pun intended.”
“There are no schools as we know them,” Mom says. “They teach with computers and television sets. We’re to take you and Meggie to the education center tomorrow for placement tests. After that you’ll receive instructions via TV. The televisions are already in the apartments.”
My eyes meet David’s, and I can see my own disappointment reflected there. We have both always enjoyed school. How will we meet other kids?
“Who are these Fathers?” I finally ask.
“Good question,” Gramps says. “I’m afraid to ask. I think it must be something everybody on the planet is expected to know.”
“And what planet are we on anyway?” David directs his question to Mom, the astronomy professor. “You should know.”
“I think Gramps was right—the Carriage has brought us to a parallel universe,” Mom says very quietly. “I believe this Earth started out exactly like the one we left behind. But somewhere along the way, they took slightly different turns, which naturally would lead to more different turns. It’s impossible to say what all the differences are.”
“The butterfly effect,” Gramps says.
“The what?” I ask.
“The butterfly effect is best described in a short story by Ray Bradbury about a man who goes into the past and kills a butterfly. As a result, history is changed.”
“So you’re saying,” David interjects, “that even one small deviation on this planet from the other Earth’s evolution would have affected many other things?”
“That’s correct,” Mom says. “The changes would have snowballed and morphed into more changes.”
“How do you know it’s Earth?” I ask.
Gramps laughs. “Because the man at the employment agency asked us, ‘Where on earth did you people come from?’ ”
“It must be the 1950s on this Earth,” I say. “How else could Elvis be so young?”
“That’s right,” David agrees. “That would also explain why everything seems old-fashioned. Do you think we’ve gone back in time?”
“No,” Gramps says. “The Carriage is not programmed to do that. Unless …”
“Unless what?” David prods.
“Unless we hit a time warp somewhere on the way here, but I think if that had happened, we would have felt some kind of turbulence.”
“Besides, people here use computers,” Mom reminds us.
“That’s true,” Gramps says. “But let’s not ask anybody what year it is. A question like that is sure to turn heads.”
After eating lunch, we go to the bus stop and study the map.
“Here’s Sector B,” Mom says as she points to a spot outside the main business district of the city. “In the residential area. And the bus we need runs every half hour.”
Mom buys bus tokens with some of the coupons Amanda Harp gave us. Once en route, David and I watch the city roll by our window. At Fashion City Park, which is at the fringe of the business district, we can see families enjoying the warm day, with children on the playground equipment, picnics spread on the wooden tables, a footrace under way near the entrance.
After the park come blocks and blocks of housing projects, in which all the buildings are very much alike. They are made from some dark brown material, maybe wood, many stories high, and showing wear and tear.
Each apartment has its own tiny balcony, which gives us hints of what kind of people live inside. Bicycles are stored on some of them. Others are littered with toys or exercise equipment, small grills, lots of potted plants, chairs. The buildings cast shadows over the paved parking lots and sid
ewalks below. There are few trees.
“Except for the park, I haven’t seen a playground, or even a yard,” I whisper to David, “and definitely no gardens.”
“No sports arenas or baseball fields, not even a vacant lot,” he whispers back.
A wave of homesickness washes over me. I wonder what will be said about us when school starts again in the little town we left behind. There probably will be no end to the gossip about us, about the Carriage, about our vanishing into a cloud of vapor. We’ll be forgotten as the people we are, and remembered only as “the aliens.” Kitty Singer will find a new best friend, and the old Fischer place will be sold to the highest bidder—that is, if they can find someone who is not too freaked out to live where “the aliens” lived. Our garden, our screened porch, our big old breezy kitchen, all could fall into the hands of some family who will never appreciate them like we did.
The bus lurches to a stop and the driver calls out, “Sector B!”
We get off the bus and go to look at our new home.
• 10 •
The superintendent of Building 9, with keys in hand, is ready to show us to our apartment. He received a call from Amanda Harp telling him to expect us.
“You can call me Tom,” he says as we ride the elevator up to the sixth floor. “And I already know your names.”
When we don’t respond, he goes on to say, “Amanda Harp has told everybody about you. She’s got a big mouth, that one. In the housing authority we like to say there are three methods of communication—telephone, television, and tell Amanda.”
We laugh politely.
Tom is tall and lanky, all angles and bones. And he has the longest nose and the deepest-set eyes I’ve ever seen. I can’t help staring at him. Mom nudges me to remind me that I’m being rude.
Tom, on the other hand, doesn’t mind at all being rude. He wraps his long arms around his body and leans against the wall, watching us. On the sixth floor we follow him down a hallway to number 603, where he unlocks the door, then hands four keys to Mom.
“You’ll like Fashion City,” he says. “Everybody does.” And he leaves us alone.
In the apartment we find nothing unusual except for a large-screen television set built into one wall of each room, even the bathrooms. Every room is clean, bland, and barely furnished, but I guess it’ll do. There is beige linoleum in the kitchen and bathrooms, but the other floors are covered with sturdy carpet, as brown as coffee. The cabinets and Sheetrock are an almond color.
Mom and I take the master bedroom and bathroom. Gramps and David take the smaller two bedrooms with a bathroom between them, where there’s a washer and dryer.
The kitchen is the nicest room, as it seems to have been recently renovated. There is plenty of counter and cabinet space, and a small table with four chairs, an electric stove, a microwave, a refrigerator, a dishwasher, and a double sink with garbage disposal.
The main room has two mushroom-colored couches, two matching overstuffed armchairs, a coffee table, and a couple of end tables. Leading off this room are sliding glass doors, through which we can see our small balcony. Together we go out there and stand for a time, looking at this strange city. So muted, so lackluster, so shadowy. And even though the people are of different ethnic backgrounds, somehow they all seem the same.
“We need to think about food for dinner and for breakfast tomorrow,” Mom says wearily, interrupting my thoughts. “Shall we go for groceries?”
David and I do not particularly want to go grocery shopping, but Mom and Gramps insist. They say we are needed to help carry the sacks back home, but I know in my heart they are nervous about leaving us alone in this new place. So we stash the backpack in Mom’s and my closet, lock up our apartment, and leave again.
In the hallway we come across a woman about Mom’s age who seems agitated. With knitted brow, she paces back and forth, mumbling to herself.
We watch her briefly before Mom says, “Can we help you?”
“Maybe you can, yes, maybe so,” she says. “You see, I don’t know whether I should take the stairs or the elevator.”
And she looks at us hopefully, like we might have the answer for her.
“I know the stairs are the best exercise, but I’m going to be late for my dentist appointment,” she goes on nervously. It seems like she might burst into tears.
“You’re going to be late anyway if you don’t do one or the other,” Gramps says.
“Oh, you’re right, you’re right,” she says in great agitation. She begins to wring her hands together.
“Then take the elevator, dear,” Mom says gently.
“But the stairs are the best exercise,” the woman repeats. “What should I do? What should I do?”
“Then take the stairs,” Gramps suggests.
“But it takes longer to get down,” she says, then continues to pace and stew.
From a nearby stairwell, a very pretty girl emerges. No more than twelve or thirteen, she has a face like a flower; her hair is long, dark, and shiny, her eyes a rich brown. Seeing the pacing woman, the girl walks quickly to her.
“Come, Bonnie, what’s the problem? I’ll help you decide.”
Bonnie repeats her dilemma to the young girl.
“You must take the elevator,” the girl says firmly. “This one time it’s all right. The Fathers would approve.”
At the same time she steers the woman toward the elevator. She pushes the Down button and stands whispering soothingly to Bonnie while they wait.
“Are you sure it’s the right decision?” Bonnie says when the elevator arrives.
“I’m positive,” the young girl says, and guides Bonnie inside.
“Thank you, Jennifer, thank you!” Bonnie cries as the elevator closes behind her.
“Jennifer,” David whispers.
I glance at his face. Uh-oh. Is he smitten, or what?
Jennifer turns to us and smiles warmly, saying, “Bonnie lives in the apartment next to yours, number 605. She’s a sweet lady and a good neighbor, but she’s been rehabilitated so many times, she has no decision-making ability left. She has an advanced case of gross vacillation.”
“Gross vacillation?” Mom repeats.
“Yes, it’s a common disorder here. It’s similar to gross reiteration, also common.”
“And that means?”
“Just what it sounds like. A person with gross reiteration repeats the same words and phrases over and over. They get stuck and can’t get loose.”
“Well, that one I get,” Gramps says. “I mean, I can see why.”
“And exactly what was Bonnie rehabilitated for?” Mom asks.
“One thing and another,” Jennifer says. “Mostly war protests. She had three brothers killed in the war.”
“What war?” Mom asks.
Jennifer shrugs. “One of the wars against the Fathers.”
Then she stretches out a hand to Mom and introduces herself. “I’m Jennifer Gilmore. I live upstairs with my dad and my brother, Colin.”
I wonder where her mom is, but don’t ask. Mom starts introductions, but Jennifer interrupts.
“I know who you are,” she says. “Tom’s told everybody about you.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Jennifer,” Mom is saying. “Do come visit with us when you get a chance, and bring your family.”
“Oh, I’d love that!” Jennifer says. “I’ll ask Dad.”
David watches her as she turns and disappears into the stairwell, where apparently she was on her way down, or up.
“Gross vacillation?” Gramps mutters as we push the elevator button. “Gross reiteration?”
“They do like that word, gross, don’t they?” I say.
“Jennifer is not gross,” David says to nobody in particular.
From Tom we get directions to the nearest grocery store, and find it’s in easy walking distance. Sector B Groceries is a small store, very different from the supermarkets we’re accustomed to, but larger than a convenience store. It’s logically d
ivided into fresh produce, dairy, frozen foods, and then everything else.
The frozen foods take up most of the store. There we find prepared meals of all kinds and sizes, ready to be nuked. Mom has a concerned look on her face. She doesn’t like processed food.
“Too much salt and fat,” I’ve heard her say many times. “And too many preservatives. There’s no telling what might be in a frozen dinner. You can’t even pronounce the ingredients.”
But it seems we have no choice at the moment. After selecting our frozen meals and other necessities, vinegar among them, we go to the checkout. Our cashier is a dark-haired young woman whose name tag tells us she is Tammy. She calls out each item as she rings it up on her register. She pops her gum, just like Kitty.
Lining each side of the checkout lane are stacks and stacks of small blue boxes. LOTUS is written in white letters on the sides. But something else is missing. What could it be? Here are the candy bars and the batteries and film, but … Oh, right! No tabloid newspapers screaming about drunken celebrities and two-headed pigs. It’s kinda nice not seeing them. But there are no magazines and newspapers of any kind. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any at all in Fashion City.
“Anything else, dear?” Tammy says sweetly to Mom.
“Do you have a newspaper back there?” I jump in, thinking they might be on the floor in bundles behind the counter. I’ve known this to happen sometimes in busy stores when the help hasn’t had time to rack them.
“A n-newspaper!” Tammy sputters. “I should say not! These kids today!” Then she shakes her head, seeming at a loss for further words.
Surprised by her reaction, I say, “What do you mean?”
“For your information, this is not a black-market store!” she spits out with disgust.
“What’s a black-market store?” I ask, sincerely eager to know.
But Tammy refuses to answer me. She has pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest in a holier-than-thou stance.
“If you please, miss,” Mom says, refereeing for me, “we have just arrived this day from the Western Province. We are rather uninformed.”
The cashier’s expression and attitude change immediately. “Ohhhhh.” She says the word long and low, making a tall O with her lips. “From the Western Province?” She looks all of us up and down curiously. Then she takes the food rations from Gramps, hands the receipt and some change to Mom, and pats me on the head.
