by Ruth White
“It’s just me,” Gramps says.
My eyes overflow as I go into his arms. “I woke up alone,” I say, and he hugs me.
“We would never leave you, Meggie B.”
Of course they wouldn’t. I am such a baby. I wipe my tears on Gramps’s shirt. I don’t want David to see me like this.
“Your mom just went out to get some fresh air, and found me and David on the balcony,” Gramps explains. “Since that door isn’t locked, we’re assuming it’s okay to be out there. Mom asked me to come and get you, for it has rained.”
We find Mom and David huddled together on a blanket. Mom has spread a shower curtain under the blanket to keep it dry. She stretches out her arms for me, and I crawl into them.
“Smell the rain?” she says.
It’s a fairly fresh smell, but mixed up with gas fumes and asphalt, it can’t compare with the summer rains in North Carolina.
Gramps snuggles on the other side of me, and I feel safe again. We settle against the wall and listen to the silence. The people of Fashion City are asleep behind their locked doors. What do they dream of?
In my mind I am singing “Near the village, the peaceful village, the lion sleeps tonight”—when suddenly the sound of real singing reaches my ears. It’s a man’s voice coming from the balcony directly above ours. He accompanies himself on the guitar. We barely breathe as we listen.
I remember moonless nights across the frozen land.
Soft flakes of snow were falling.
Freedom in the wilderness back when the earth was new.
Traps and guns were faraway and few.
I remember cold blue nights of ice and wind,
Moving softly ’neath the silver pines.
How those haunting mem’ries call me,
Saying once the wolves were here.
Wild hearts without fear!
“What a lovely voice,” Mom whispers in the darkness.
“It’s extraordinary,” Gramps says softly. “He seems to be singing from the wolf’s point of view. And such a melancholy song. I can almost hear them howling.”
“I’m reminded of your father,” Mom says sadly to me and David. “He had an amazing voice. Do you remember how he used to come into your room at night and sing you to sleep?”
“I do,” David says. “Our beds were suspended from the ceiling.”
“I remember too,” I say, surprising myself. “Our house was round and silver, and it sat high on a cliff.” So that dream I had—it must have been a real memory. Has it been in my head all these years?
“And there were clouds all around us,” David adds.
“They were clouds of pollution!” Gramps says with a wry laugh. “But when I was a small boy, the air was clear enough that you could see blue hills in the distance.”
“I remember having to wear protective face gear when we went outside,” David says with a sigh. “But Dad got sick anyway.”
“Many people did,” Mom says. “And when your father was near the end, he made me promise to take our children to a safe place.”
She hasn’t talked about Dad for a long time, and we haven’t asked about him, because we know it makes her sad.
“And I did promise. But now? I simply don’t know how safe this place is.”
The night breeze picks up Mom’s words and carries them away. I look out upon this strange still city. The streets are wet and full of reflections. The air is thick with shadows and haze. There is no moon, and there are no stars.
“What kind of people don’t have pets?” Mom whispers.
It’s true we have not seen or heard a dog or cat or any other kind of pet. We’ve seen pigeons flying around, and a few other birds, and that seems to be the extent of animal life here. Maybe there are squirrels in the park. I’m awfully glad we didn’t adopt a golden retriever. It would have been heartbreaking to leave it behind, but impossible to keep it in Fashion City.
“Do we want to stay here or move on to another world right away?” Mom asks us.
“How long does it take to set up the Carriage?” I say.
“First we have to fit the dowels into their sockets,” Mom says. “That takes only thirty minutes or so. The dowels act as pumps to restore the walls, and that takes about twenty-four hours.”
“We can set it up in the morning if you want,” Gramps says.
“Let’s give Fashion City a little more time,” David says, and somehow I know he is thinking of Jennifer.
“Perhaps we should,” Mom says. “In the meantime, Gramps and I will learn more about operating the Carriage, and we’ll search the computer for a good place to land.”
On the balcony above us two younger voices have joined the first one in harmony.
How those haunting mem’ries call me,
Saying once the wolves were here.
Wild hearts without fear!
• 14 •
“You’ll like it here. Everybody does.”
These words are turning themselves over and over in my brain at six a.m. when all the television sets come on again. A male voice rouses us from our sleep.
“Time for exercise, happy people of Fashion City. Hit the floor. One! Two!”
I peep out from under the covers. A man is doing jumping jacks.
“The Fathers want you to have strong bodies. Three! Four! A strong body serves far better than a weak one. Five! Six!”
There’s no going back to sleep now. Mom and I watch the man exercising for a few moments before she says, “Well, we do need to keep in shape.”
With those words she crawls out of bed and hits the floor as the man suggests. I watch her exercising for a time before I join her.
“So, who is Grandma Moses?” I remember to ask Gramps at breakfast.
“On our Earth she was a famous American painter,” Gramps says, “but she didn’t start painting until she was old—in her seventies, maybe. She taught herself, and she was remarkably talented. Most of her life was spent taking care of a family. She raised ten children, and it was only when she was old that she had time to do her own thing.”
“Hey, I know what we can do,” David says. “We’ll set Gramps up as a fortune-teller. When Grandma Moses comes back from vacation, Gramps can look at her palm and tell her she’s going to be a rich and famous artist.”
“And he can tell Elvis Presley he’s going to be a rich and famous performer,” I say. “There must be other Earth doubles here too!”
Mom is smiling at us. “Yes,” she says, “I’m quite sure of it. And I’m so glad to see we’re all in a better mood after sleeping.”
The doorbell interrupts our conversation, and Gramps goes to see who’s there.
“Telephone installation service!” a man’s voice says cheerfully.
“We didn’t order a telephone,” Gramps tells him.
“It’s standard procedure,” the man explains. “Everybody gets a phone. If you don’t want to use it, fine, but it’s required.”
“Do let him in,” Mom calls out. “You never know when we’ll have an emergency.”
Gramps and the man come into the kitchen. With his back to us, the man begins installing an old-fashioned black phone with a curly cord on the wall. As we continue eating, we can’t carry on a normal conversation because we are self-conscious with him in the room. But the man is all smiles and warmth and tries to put us at ease.
“Call me Joe,” he says.
“Okay, Joe,” Gramps agrees.
We are about to drift back into silence again, with the only sound being the clinking of utensils against plates, when Joe says, “So you folks escaped the Western Province?”
When nobody answers right away, he turns around to look at us. Mom simply nods.
“How are them scalawags doing now that things are going bad for them?” he asks.
“Who?” we all say at the same time.
“You know, Lincoln and King!” Joe goes on. “They promised the people that things would be better for them if they got away from th
e Fathers. And now look at ’em, eating rats and all! Bet they’re not so full of promises these days, huh?”
“Right,” Mom says weakly.
Joe laughs long and loud.
“What do you know about Lincoln and King?” Gramps inquires.
“Not much,” Joe replies. “I was only a bit of a boy, but I do remember the night of the insurrection when the people broke down the police barriers. There were just too many of them. The police couldn’t hold ’em back. For a kid like me, it was real scary.”
We wait, hoping he’ll say more, and we are not disappointed.
“How’s old Abe doing these days?”
“Whooo?” Mom says cautiously.
“Abe … You know, Abraham Lincoln, the instigator. I know he’s old, but he’s still alive and kicking over there, ain’t he?”
I drop my fork. Abraham Lincoln is the Lincoln in the Lincoln-King regime?
“Oh … oh, yes, he’s still at it,” Mom says. “Do you remember him well?”
“Not well, but we lived in the same sector, and I heard he was a pretty good boy till he got tangled up with Martin Luther King, Jr.!”
Now all our mouths fall open and our eyes meet, as we put two and two together. Martin Luther King, Jr., is the other half of the Lincoln-King regime?
“Together they got in trouble more than anybody. Couldn’t stay out of jail.”
“J-jail?” I sputter. “For what?”
“First of all, for even hanging out together. It wasn’t allowed. Also for growing a beard, for staying out late, for trying to integrate the factory, for organizing a union … You name it. They both went through rehabilitation more times than you could shake a stick at, but it made no difference. They just couldn’t conform.”
“Would you call them grossly unique?” I say.
“Grossly unique, and grossly unpatriotic!” Joe says. “You should ask Tom about Abe. They were boys together.”
“Our building supervisor?” Gramps asks.
“That’s him, Tom Lincoln. Him and Abe are brothers.”
So that explains Tom’s appearance, all the angles and bones.
“But he’s not a thing like Abe,” Joe continues. “He was one of the first to swear allegiance to the Fathers after the insurrection.”
“I have lost track of time,” Mom says. “I’m so forgetful sometimes. How many years ago was that, anyway?”
“Derned if I know,” Joe says. “Who keeps up with years anymore? Not the folks of Fashion City. The Fathers do that for us.”
“How so?” Gramps asks.
“Oh, they send out reminders on important days, like when it’s your turn to use the park, when it’s time to get drafted at sixteen, and when you’re old enough for Vacation 65. Otherwise, we don’t need to know what day it is, or what year either.”
So that answers the question of the calendar. Nobody cares what year it is.
“Oh, we know what season it is,” Joe says. “That’s the important thing. We do everything by season—group birthdays, for example.”
“Group birthdays?” I ask.
“Yeah, you know your sector gets to go to the park once each season. So if you was born in the spring, then you could celebrate the spring birthday party in the park when it’s time for your sector to go.”
Group birthdays? How special is that?
“But you, sir.” Joe turns to Gramps. “You certainly must remember the insurrection! Better than any of us, I’m sure.”
“Well …” Gramps doesn’t know what to say. “Sorta.”
“That’s not a thing you’re likely to forget,” Joe persists.
“Not unless you get hit on the head and lose your memory,” Gramps says.
Startled, Mom, David, and I look at him, and he winks. “I have suffered from amnesia ever since.”
“Is that right? Don’t remember a thing, do you?”
“Very little.” Gramps lies easily. “It was a hard blow.”
“Well, I reckon you know that Lincoln and King accused the Fathers of being oppressive. They led more than half the people out of Fashion City and established their own regime in the Western Province, which, I don’t have to tell you, ain’t a fit place to live. Since then our only news of them has come in bits and pieces, mostly through people like you who have managed to escape. You’re a lucky bunch, is all I can say.”
“And where are these other escapees now?” Mom asks.
“Who knows?” Joe replies. “They get jobs and places to live, like you all did, and next thing you know, they’re part of the mix. Not to worry. You’ll blend in soon enough. Then you’ll forget the past and become just like the rest of us.”
Now that is a scary thought!
Joe grins at us, like he’s pleased with his little pep talk. Then he packs his tools and stands up to leave. “Welcome to Fashion City. You’ll like it here. Everybody does.”
When he’s gone, we sit there looking at each other, trying to make sense of what we’ve heard.
“Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King, Jr., alive at the same time, in the present?” Mom says. “That’s a lot to take in.”
“There’s an evolutionary theory,” Gramps says, “that great leaders appear on their respective planets at the time when they are most needed.”
“I wrote a paper on Abraham Lincoln in my history class,” David says, “and he did have a younger brother by the name of Thomas, but he died as an infant.”
“Apparently, on this Earth, he lived,” Mom says. “Perhaps because he was born at a time when medical technology was more advanced.”
“I wonder if things really are as bad in the Western Province as people say,” Gramps says. “I’m inclined to believe it’s merely propaganda. After all, look how The Family Hour quoted us when they didn’t even interview us.”
“Is it possible the Western Province is more like America?” David says.
“Entirely possible,” Gramps says. “With Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King, Jr., in charge, you would expect a civilized place. But who knows?”
“Maybe we could go there,” I say.
“Not so fast,” Mom says. “We don’t know for sure what it’s like over there. It could be as bad as they say.”
“Yeah, if it’s so great,” David says, “why would people be coming back here?”
“Good question,” Mom says. “Very good question.”
• 15 •
“We can’t wear these clothes another day,” Mom says after breakfast. “We’re beginning to smell. Let’s go shopping.”
We make a list of things we need, leave Building 9, and hop onto a bus for the Fashion City Mall. It’s near the clothing factory where Mom and Gramps are going to work, and we have to cross over a bridge. Gazing down into the murky water is like looking into a giant mud puddle. Things float on top. Green slime laps against the banks. A light wind is blowing dirty foam over the slime. I half expect some hideous ecological beast to rise from the muck. I’ll bet there wasn’t a nastier river even on Chroma.
At the water’s edge several men are working on large white signs with letters in bright blue fluorescent paint. Some of the signs are finished and propped up to dry.
David elbows me and whispers, “Look what the signs say.”
NO SWIMMING. NO FISHING. NO WADING.
“What are we—stupid?” David whispers again.
I giggle.
“Even if a person wanted to drown himself,” David goes on, “he’d want to find a more sanitary watery grave.”
The mall, by American standards, is small. There are only three clothing stores, and all of them sell the same clothes—in white, black, gray, navy, olive, and brown. Many of the T-shirts display the slogans we’ve heard again and again since coming to Fashion City, the most common one being Praise the Fathers.
The other stores are selling things like sewing machines, radios, guitars, bicycles, and toys. The toys are limited to guns and military supplies, dolls and stuffed animals.
We walk into one of the clothing stores, and I’m in the sleepwear section trying in vain to find something I like, when I hear someone muttering.
“Animals are filthy and carry disease. Animals are filthy and carry disease. Animals are filthy and carry disease.” And on and on and on.
I peep around a rack of robes and see a display of teddy bears and other stuffed animals tucked in with the pj’s. I’m surprised to see that many of the animals are brightly colored. And standing beside the display is Alison Fink, a girl from my fifth-grade class. I always thought she was so cool because she had a fantastic imagination. She made up stories about the people in our class and how she thought we would turn out in the future. In my story, I was to become a famous astronaut. As for Alison, she loved animals, and wrote about herself as a veterinarian.
At the moment she’s playing absentmindedly with the stuffed animals as she repeats that dumb phrase.
“Alison! I’m so happy to see you!” But no, no, I have to remind myself, this is not the Alison I used to know. This is her double.
Alison glances up at me but doesn’t lose her train of thought. She goes on with her repetitious phrase while she plays with the toys. She is slow and deliberate in saying each word, like she doesn’t want to miss a syllable. “Animals are filthy and carry disease. Animals are filthy and carry disease.”
So this must be one of those cases of gross reiteration Jennifer mentioned. That phrase is stuck in Alison’s head, probably because it’s been repeated to her so often, and now she can’t get it out. It must be hard for her to live in a world without animals.
I watch and listen for a moment, but it’s really nerve-wracking. I’m reminded of how a tune gets stuck in my head sometimes and nearly drives me nuts. What I have to do is replace it with another tune that I like better. Then I concentrate on the tune I like, and hum it out loud, or in my head, and presto! The other tune evaporates.
I move over to stand beside Alison, and pick up a furry cat. “Wouldn’t you just love to be an animal doctor?” I say.
“Animals are filthy and carry disease” is her response.
