Elias's Fence

by Steinberg, Anne

  As he leaned back, he touched the soft wool of the discarded shawl and instinct drove him to fling it over her face.

  "Yes" - now he could do it, he could lift this loglike bundle of black and carry it to the waiting grave.

  He shoveled the fresh earth quickly. In the weak moonlight among the dirt the ring glinted, the broken finger pointing upward, and he worked frantically until at last it, too, was covered.

  After a decent interval of a month, the nuns came again and wept at the statue he had created for their fence. They decided that their fence now would be somehow more meaningful - two holy women had died in its making.

  They approved the model, but when it was cast Elias found a flaw in the metal for the first time in his years of firing. The tiny perfect face seemed to have a small bump in the left cheek.

  He reworked the model several times and recast it, but each time, because of some irregularity that he could not find, the face seemed to have a tear running down its check. Finally, the nuns decided that perhaps a crying angel would be appropriate after all.

  The fence and gate were completed two years and one month after the commission. The Archbishop dedicated it. The gates were closed. The fence stood.

  Elias released the woman that came to care for him. He took no more work. He went to the town only for supplies. He spent time sitting watching the swans.

  Life had changed. He spent his remaining years in morbid fear. All the while Sarah Elizabeth had worked for the church, believing in salvation and God, it meant nothing to Elias but empty promises. As empty as the other things that were spoken about - love, anger, fear, lust.

  Those things had turned out to be real after all, but still he saw no proof of a God. He did believe that he saw proof of the devil. It came on dark wings in the night, fluttering.

  The fence stood, the most magnificent piece of work of his life. He looked at the crying angels and felt incredibly sad.

  He witnessed his fence erected at the Sister of Mercy Hospital and shivering he felt a chill, for it emanated a presence, an evil. Did they not feel it? He did. He heard it whisper words just below hearing. He crossed himself, prayed for the first time since he was a child and answered his own question. There must be a God, for he knew for certain there was a devil.

  He died the next year on December 20, 1932.

  ● ● ●

  In the century that passed, the Sisters of Mercy had an epidemic of tuberculosis. Patients and nuns alike died and filled the graveyards.

  The building shielded by Elias's fence found new occupants. The State Hospital housed the criminally insane. Three of the most violent, by leaping out of windows, met their ends impaled on the fence. A fourth inmate, pronounced improved, was given special privileges and his careless smoking caused the original building to burn to the ground.

  The fence then housed nothing but ruins and the rooks which nested there. In 1970, a group of religious fanatics settled nearby. The original plan was to build temporary shelter within the boundaries of the fence, but after several trips within the enclosure their leader decided against it, for reasons known only to himself.

  Then, in 1990, the site became notorious for the event that occurred there. Newspapers, television, radio, and a random visit by a presidential candidate campaigning in the area spotlighted the event civilization was appalled by:

  "The Public Borning"

  The fence changed hands many times and in 2032 it was the property of a junk dealer, a Mr. Kramer, who, being a shrewd businessman, called Elias's fence an Architectural Antique.

  Chapter 2

  The Thorpe's house was the last house on Portland Place. It was a stone affair with twelve rooms and, for the city had a huge garden with beautiful oak trees that hadn't been affected yet by the pollution.

  Monday morning found Anderson Thorpe awake at seven. The tape recorder droned on with its messages. It was a well-built house, so his work disturbed no one. Down the hall his teenage sons slept soundly. His daughter, in the room next to them, slept soundly as well. Across the hall, his wife, Christine, stirred. She reached out to the other side of the bed. Touching the empty space usually awakened her. It was like a phantom limb that pained. It was over seventeen years now since he had shared her bed - since Rachael was conceived.

  Her window faced the back yard and she became aware of the furtive sounds. They were getting bolder. They used to come only at night. The shadows of the bars on the window reassured her. She arose to look. Only one lone man's retreating back scurrying away, jumping down the wall, disappearing into the alley. Most of the gardening tools were already gone, to be used for weapons - trowels, spades, even the sprinkling can. The last row of flowers had been trampled. It's no use, she thought. Without a fence it's no use at all.

  She reached up and massaged her neck. Another restless night, but she couldn't complain. Anderson would only tell her to move to another bedroom. But she loved this room - or used to - before them. The sun came in early and it was pure pleasure to glance out at her garden first thing in the morning.

  She had been very clever with her plantings - coppers, iris, geraniums, pansies, and that lovely mimosa tree, gone now, the branches stripped, cut off. She couldn't imagine what they wanted them for.

  Last night was the worst. The fires in the alley was for some sort of barbecue. The poor dogs had barked until they were hoarse. Even with the windows open only a crack, the shouted oaths could be heard clearly, but "Mother Fucker", "Son-of-a-Bitch", "Cock Sucker" had lost their impact and begun to sound like any other words. Last night in the firelight she saw the glint of their knives. Still, they hadn't come to the windows. The pure terror she felt when they did had her hissing those same words back at them that she found so distasteful. The kids just laughed at the street people and Anderson - safe in his cocoon of stone and barred windows - ignored them.

  Today she'd call that man at the fence place. Anderson had okayed the purchase. If only their name had moved up the list. "Worry-wart, worry-wart" she admonished herself.

  She put on her robe. This was a nice time of day in the cozy kitchen with fresh coffee and only the house sounds. The shades being down was an inconvenience, but sun streaming through the room was a pleasure she had missed ever since that day when she looked up and saw three angry faces pressed up against the glass. The middle man had a sinister smile on his face and a gold tooth that gleamed and winked. That was all she could remember, except the shame of peeing right there in her chair and the sound of it spattering on the floor. They saw and the din of their cruel laughter echoed, following her terror stricken flight up the stairs. The next day Anderson installed the shades.

  Now she moved around the kitchen, setting out the plates. Petting the dogs, she moved about opening the cans. "Breakfast, boys" and the faithful Shepherds quickly gulped down the food and then followed her about the kitchen, liquid brown eyes begging. "Okay, all right, good boys." She reached for the treats and gave them each a large milk bone. As they retreated under the table with their prizes, she continued breakfast preparations unheeded.

  When she reached for the spice rack near the smallest window, she noticed it - shadows against the shade. Five small distinct shadows. "What on earth...?"

  Tentatively peeking out around the corner of the shade, she couldn't imagine what it was - orange, something orange.

  Realization dawned and her scream startled the dogs and they began barking furiously. Hoarse still from last night, they joined in her screams of terror.

  Her first thought was for Rachael - she'd be heartbroken - but she couldn't open the door and take them down. Like some deranged bull fighters, they had left them there, nailed up - the cat's paws and tail. Of course, the barbecue in the alley last night. Her stomach heaved.

  She reached for the intercom and he answered quickly, too quickly. He'd be annoyed. She heard the jingle in the background - "Acapulco Gold".

  "What?"

  "Anderson, I'm sorry to bother you, but the cat...they've ki
lled the cat."

  "Well, we'll have to get her another one," he snapped.

  "Can you come down? Please!"

  "I said," he continued in that tired, patient voice, "I'm very busy. It's settled, get her another cat."

  "Anderson, please - they've nailed parts of it to the window ledge."

  She held the phone dumbly. The finality of the click assured her he would probably snap at her all day.

  Anderson flipped up the shade. The grotesque sight of the paws and the tail, moving slightly in the wind, made Christine retch.

  "No one out there now," he commented, opening the door wider. The scent of garbage assailed them. She couldn't look as he ripped down the cat's remains. Her stomach heaved again violently.

  "Garbage men are still on strike," she said.

  He dropped the remains into the overflowing can, shut the door carefully and secured the locks. He washed his hands at the sink before he sat down at the table, annoyance in the set of his stiff shoulders.

  "Coffee?"

  "Yes."

  Upstairs, the alarms rang, waking the children.

  "Do you think I should keep Rachael out of school? I really don't want to as I mean to check that place about the fence to see where we are on the list."

  "Suit yourself." As he scribbled frantically in his notebook, she knew she had already lost his attention.

  When had she really lost him? She couldn't remember exactly - just that it was a long time ago. The children and he were friends. She was the outsider now. Worry-wart, she told herself. Maybe that's how...it's just that she loved them all so much and it was so frightening out there.

  Stretching over the stove, she tore the page off the calendar. Monday - it was Monday, April 12, 2023. She'd be positive, yes, she'd be very positive today. She'd go see that man and bribe him - or anything she had to do - for she simply had to have a fence.

  Luke came in first. "Pancakes, Mom. I'm starved."

  Anderson looked up and smiled, annoyance at her forgotten as it dissolved into pleasure at seeing his eldest son.

  Matthew tumbled into the room next. "Great, Mom. I could smell them upstairs."

  God, they lit up her life, these men, these boys of hers. Hungrily they attacked the stacks of pancakes. She poured the milk. Then it was back - that cold as ice feeling. She felt his eyes on her.

  "Forget something?" Anderson said. The chill in his voice an almost visible thing.

  Not hearing him clearly, she sat down with her hands twisting nervously in her lap. Looking at her sons, she said quietly, "They killed your sister’s cat."

  "No shit?" Luke blurted still chewing his food.

  "Bastards!" Matthew exclaimed. "She'll be bumming. She really liked that stupid cat."

  "Please, boys...the profanity!" she admonished. "It's terrible what they've done, but cursing doesn't change a thing."

  Anderson clicked his spoon rudely against the empty glass and repeated, "Forget something?"

  Finally - remembering, she jumped up, retrieved it from the pantry, and poured each of her sons a glass of "Nirvana", Anderson's product. It had replaced orange juice in the house ever since Anderson got the account. She didn't like it - some sort of herb mixture, brown and murky with a musky smell. The children, at their father's insistence, drank it readily and now even seemed to like it.

  It was another of Anderson's successes. His ad agency had magic. His products reached the top quickly and continued to sell well. He was successful - very successful. The house was littered with his trophies - this award for that commercial, this one for that campaign.

  She was proud of him, yet she felt a certain distaste for the products he promoted. She guessed it was her religious upbringing or something. Even the kids teased her.

  "Mom, come on - welcome to the 21st century."

  Rachael's presence at the table was missed.

  "She’s wasting all that time putting on her makeup. It'll just run when she hears about the cat."

  "Ssh, Luke. We can't tell her before school," Christine scolded.

  Rachael appeared in the doorway. "Tell me what?"

  "Rachael," her father said gently. "Sit down. You're a big girl. Bad things happen sometimes.” He paused. “The cat's dead."

  She sat down and tears threatened to spill over.

  "How? He was just a kitten."

  Anderson nodded toward the yard. "They got him."

  "Stupid cat," she blurted. "They run fast, they climb like crazy. He should have got away - it serves him right. Stupid, stupid cat!"

  "Breakfast - try to eat a little," Christine cooed, realizing how silly she was to make such a remark at a time like this.

  "No, I just want a glass of Nirvana."

  They finished eating in silence and gathered their various things, brief cases, books, etc. and, as always, left the house together. This was a relief to Christine as she was sure Anderson would get them to school safely. The car was built of reinforced steel with bullet proof windows, so that was no chance of any mishap on the streets.

  Inside the car Rachael moved closer to the window, as the Nirvana had not settled in her stomach yet, and she felt the alien emotions of incredible sadness, tears gathered in her eyes, and she looked away trying to hide from her brother’s gaze. Too late, Luke spotted the first tear that leaked down her cheek.

  “Poor, poor kitty,” he lisped. “Crying about the cat, or is it because you didn’t get a taste of that tender meat.”

  “Shut up – I’m not crying,” Rachael lied, “It’s my mascara – it’s running.”

  “Boys – Boys – no teasing your sister. Here, Rachael,” and he handed her the thermos of Nirvana. “Take a big swig, Honey. It keeps you steady.”

  After Christine had bolted all the locks, the house settled quietly around her. She was getting better. In the past she'd been full of fear - always sure that one of them had gotten in the house and was hiding in one of the rooms. Silly, silly woman. But with bolts, locks, and bars on every window she was safe - as safe as one could be.

  But she missed Rosa. In the past, at ten the doorbell would ring and Rosa, always cheerful like sunshine, would come in to clean and cook. Christine sorely missed the sound of her singing. But now...

  Remembering her vow to be positive, she felt the need to touch them - her things, her forbidden things. Maybe secrets like this were part of what had come between them - Anderson and herself. Rosa was the only one who knew about them, these things she kept hidden in the basement.

  She opened the door to the cellar and clicked on the lights. Sleepy from the food but always obedient, the dogs rose to follow her. She passed through the first room - what was left of the garden tools hung there. She passed through the children's den, littered with empty Coke cans. The next room was hers - her studio. A long time ago, when she was a sculptor, she had spent many happy hours here creating things.

  A forgotten vase gathered dust in the corner; an unfinished headless bust on the table was cracked with age; the kiln was cold and unused. Vats of clay stood ready in case she felt the urge to create. Lifting one lid, she was surprised to find the clay still moist. Perhaps, after the fence, she'd work again. It'd be good for her. She moved the heavy vat, slid the loose panel on the wall, and retrieved them - her things.

  Silly, all this trouble of hiding them. Anderson would never in a million years be down here rooting around in her studio. Better yet, she knew he thought her too spineless to have kept them - these illegal things.

  She touched the first object and lifted it out. The velvet cloth slid off and she held the crystal up - its facets numbered seven. She was just a child when it was brought back as a souvenir from one of the mammoth caves in Arkansas. Even now, years later, she recalled the man putting this crystal in her hands and telling her she was holding the past, something very special that could be a thousand years old, or even older. Then she had looked at the beautiful shimmering rock and felt like she was holding light - its seven terminals gleamed and she felt a re
al buzz.

  Now Christine held the crystal up to the light, but it was cloudy. Sadly she remembered when it had shone brilliantly and sported a rainbow. She also remembered its song.

  When she was very little her mother told her that crystals could sing, and it was true. This very crystal had sung to her. She stroked the stone, blew her breath into it, wished it well, put it back, and then reached for the book. The soft leather of the cover felt warm and comforting. She opened the Bible and caressed the pages as if she were reading braille, knowing she didn't have time to read it.

  The quiet time soothed her. The last thing she reached for came apart in her hands. The links on the rosary snapped. "Never mind, I couldn't have worn it anyway," but just thinking about it gave her courage. Would it be sacrilegious to have worn it inside her dress, the crucifix swinging between her breasts?

  When these things were made illegal, Anderson had made a fortune out of his "God is Dead" campaign. He had such a talent for reviving things past. This campaign in America had buried the Creator once and for all and left no doubt in the minds of most people that "God was Dead." The laws making churches and religious icons and relics illegal had evolved from that campaign.

  During it radio and television broadcasts closed with funereal music as the voiceover pronounced:

  "God is Dead"

  That was when she had stupidly said, "I hope he isn't." And seeing Anderson's withering look, had hidden these things to save them from the trash can.

  "I hope he isn't," she said to no one. "I really hope he isn't."

  Brushing off her dress, one by one she replaced the things - the things that kept her sane.

  First thing she'd call her mother - rather the nurse that cared for her mother. She went upstairs, grabbed a fresh cup of coffee, sat comfortably at the desk, and dialed the nursing home. "How is she today, Doris?"