"She's fine, Mrs. Thorpe, just fine. She had a bit of juice and some oats - had an appetite - doing fine," the nurse lied, looking back at the husk of a human being lying on the bed.
"Tell her I love her and miss her."
"I'll tell her, Mrs. Thorpe. She understands me. Her eyes light up when I repeat your messages."
"Oh good, Doris. Let her know we're coming to see her real soon and that the children miss her a lot." Christine twinged at her own lie.
She was satisfied with the nurse's report and most of the time didn't allow herself to think about the real facts. It was dishonest, but trying to believe the nurse's script made the situation more tolerable.
Touching the Bible had created a desire that she desperately wanted to share. Biting her tongue, she ventured, almost in a whisper, "Doris, could you tell her I still have a Bible?"
The shocked silence which greeted her made Christine realize she had made a big mistake.
The nurse wrestled with her greed. Mrs. Thorpe's mother had been good for five years of easy work. Still, she had to confront this. She couldn't let Mrs. Thorpe think this kind of talk was acceptable. Making her voice firm, she said, "I'll pretend I didn't hear you, Mrs. Thorpe. For this poor soul's sake, I'll forget what you said."
"Thank you, Doris, thank you," she whispered, and her hand shook as she replaced the receiver.
Rattled now, but determined, she dialed the next number. She must go on - she must be positive. She had to check with the fence place. Christine took a couple of deep breaths, practiced a couple of faces in the mirror, and dialed the number.
She recognized his gruff voice. "Mr. Kramer, this is Mrs. Thorpe. I'm on your list. I need a fence. I need one now." She kept her voice firm.
"Well don't we all," was his clipped reply.
Not put off by his sarcasm, she went on. "I'll come down today and see what you've got."
"Whoa, hold it lady. We got a list, you know."
"I know. I've been on your list for over two years. It's getting desperate out here. I need a fence now !"
After a pause he said, "Well, the architectural ones I have are special. They supersede the list sometimes." He paused. "I take pride in matching my customers and fences. I wouldn't want just anyone getting one of my classic fences. Antiques they are. I even got a signed one - just came in today - signed by the maker - Elias Jacob Pogue - 1931. But I gotta check the list to see where you are."
Christine took a deep breath. "I understand, Mr. Kramer. Why, just this morning my husband said, 'Honey, you call that nice Mr. Kramer today and tell him we need a fence. Money's no object, honey. I figure your name's probably at the top of the list by now.' My husband's usually right, so could you check your list carefully?"
"Is your husband Anderson Thorpe - Thorpe Communications?"
"Why, yes - that's him."
"Darn if he ain't right. Here's your name - top of my preferred list."
"Well then, I'll be down this afternoon - say about two." Christine was proud of herself, for she was being so direct, so firm - and it was working.
"Fine, fine. Bring cash. We don't handle checks or credit cards anymore. I'm sure you know that."
"Of course. I will. What's the price range on those special ones you mentioned?"
"Thirty to thirty-five thousand - that range."
She held her breath - it was so much more than she had expected. But she needed a fence. "Fine, fine. I'll see you at two."
Kramer hung up, determined to push that one - the one with the angels. Damn that piece of junk. It could become illegal and then he'd be stuck with it. Besides, he'd been covered with boils ever since he'd touched the damn thing. "Come on, Mrs. Thorpe, look what I got for you," he mused to himself.
Christine's hands shook as she dialed the office. Her bravado had left her for a minute - the price of that fence had her rattled.
The phone rang. "Mr. Thorpe, please," she requested timidly.
"Who's calling?"
"Mrs. Thorpe - it's urgent."
Loud, raucous music blared in the background. Ever since Anderson had replaced Musack, she had found this new age stuff very unsettling.
The secretary came back on the line. "He's in conference. I'm sorry."
"Look, you must, simply must, disturb him. It's an emergency."
"Mrs. Thorpe, will you take the responsibility for this disruption?"
"Yes, of course."
The music blared for a minute or two and then Anderson's sharp voice reached her. "What is it, Christine? What's so important?"
Trying to keep her voice calm but firm, she said, "I need the number for Secure Transport. A fence is available now and I must bring cash - today."
"Fine, but somewhere you have the number, Christine. You were supposed to write it down. I can't abide carelessness. You know that."
"I know. I will. But, please, I need their number now." Her voice cracked with desperation.
"23496 - dial two, then 66."
Abruptly, the phone disconnected. She knew he enjoyed hanging up on her.
"23496 - dial two-66. 23496 - dial two-66," she repeated as she searched for a pen to write it down.
I must have something nice to wear, she thought as she tore through the closets. Silly, he just needs the money. That talk about matching clients to the fence is so much crap...or maybe not. She pulled out her best suit.
Secure Transport would have to wait in front while she completed her purchase, but two guards alighted with her to carry the heavy valises of cash.
Kramer answered the buzz in a minute. The gates slid open and coming toward her, the short bald man held out his hand.
"Mrs. Thorpe, you're so prompt."
She resented the way he took her elbow and his face and hands were covered with angry red boils - some new sort of disease she was sure.
As they picked their way across the littered lot, walking between the stacked fences, he clucked on and on, talking a mile a minute. "A perfect fence I've got. Superb. It's you, I promise you."
"It must be suitable for electric conversion."
"Of course, Mrs. Thorpe. It's iron - perfect conductor. Nothing better than iron."
He stopped, released her hand, and spread his hands out as if showing her a priceless work of art. Fortunately he had stood one panel up, leaning it against a post.
She gasped, but knew she mustn't seem too anxious.
"Those figures on top - are those angels?"
He hesitated, "Not necessarily. Could be just a figure of a woman from 1931. Antique. Possibly just a figure - not religious, I'm sure. Not religious at all."
"I was hoping..." She stopped and he saw the raw disappointment in her face.
Stepping forward, he pretended to study the fence carefully. "Angels. Maybe so. It's possible. Sure, see it's got wings. You're right – the figures could be angels. They went in for that sort of thing in those times."
Christine teared up as she said, "My mother would have loved those figures - angels. She has fond memories of those times. But is it strong? I need a strong fence that would electrify."
Mr. Kramer nodded, "Anyone touch this baby when it's on - zap - got you. It’s the same principle as those old electric chairs, but much faster. Zap! - I'm telling you."
He watched her head nodding. Unconsciously, she told him he could go up to the top quoted figure.
"Course this fence isn't for everyone. I've kept your dimensions and it's perfect for your lot. It would seal off the whole thing - back yard, front yard, whole thing secure."
"Good. Now, about the price..."
"I told you on the phone - thirty five." He looked toward the waiting courier and knew he had made a sale.
"Delivery - what about delivery?"
"Well..." He stopped and slowly scratched his ear. "Seems you're in a hurry. My men are tied up for a week or possibly..." He let the word hang.
"A week? But that's just the beginning! I need to arrange for so much construction and electricians. I was
hoping..."
"Yeah, I know, Mrs. Thorpe. If I pull the men off the other jobs - a lotta juggling and expense - but for five extra I could get it to you in the morning."
"Good. I can pay that extra fee on delivery."
"Right. My office is this way," he said.
She followed him into the cubicle and motioned the courier to come. On his crowded desk she counted out the money putting it in stacks of hundreds. Watching hungrily he scratched at the boils in his palm as the stacks mounted. And then it was done, she had bought it; Christine knew that now they would have a strong fence.
At home she felt strangely dizzy. Tea - she needed some herbal tea. The vault upstairs was almost empty. Forty thousand - that's what the fence had cost up to now. Mentally she tried to construct a figure. What on earth would the installation and electricity cost? And what on earth would she tell Anderson.
Muttering to herself, she argued: "I need this fence. Everything's out of hand here. I'll scrimp - that's it, I'll scrimp. Let Anderson yell. That's wrong, he never yells. It's his silences that are so devastating. Pay day - when was pay day?" Absentmindedly she reached down to pet the dog. He licked her hand.
"Oh my goodness," she exclaimed. "Anderson's right, I simply must stop worrying. It could have been disastrous.”
For in her excitement she had left the house and forgotten to turn on the dogs!
Chapter 3
The fence was delivered and staked in the front yard. It wouldn't do to have it lying around loose - those street people would have carted it off section by section. The wasteland was a mere two miles away.
Christine knew other pockets of wasteland had sprung up. According to the news, wastelands dotted the city like a giant checkerboard and fear sent residents scurrying to another part of the city, the state, the country, out of the country - anywhere in their frantic flight from blight, crime and disease.
When they bought the house, the area was considered the most fashionable and every possible safety measure was purchased. For years the windows had been securely barred. They had the most sophisticated burglar alarm available, which was of some value when the police weren't on strike. They had two fine chemically enhanced dogs, and now they would have an electric fence.
Anderson inspected the fence carefully and Christine nervously watched him kneeling in the grass.
"They're not really angels," she protested nervously. "The man said antique fences often have figures like this - absolutely nothing to do with religion." She saw the set of his back and that he seemed to tremble, but she had no idea what flooded his mind and memory.
Some would have said impossible, but he remembered it. He seemed to hear the roar of the crowd. For a moment the terror of birth returned to him - the long black tunnel, his struggle to be free, the many hours twisting and turning seeking the way out, the reverberation of her silent screams. He, too, suffered until finally, with immature eyes he saw the light and was free of the darkness of the womb.
Above him in the sky, shadows fell. He remembered their silhouettes - the angels - and now the fence was here in his front yard. Christine had found it, this fence, and brought it here. It would shelter their home. Anderson rocked back on his heels; his eyes rolled back in his head. His mouth filled with the sweet remembered taste of Mother's milk, and he could feel the warmth of her breast. And the angels, the shadows of the angels. It was a sign, and vaguely he understood that he must act. It must be soon - the time had come. He must complete his mission.
"What is it, Anderson, what's wrong?" she asked.
He straightened up and patted her arm comforting, "Don't fret, my dear. You've done well."
Encouraged, she asked the question that had been on her mind. "I don't suppose you know about pay day?"
He shook his head "no" and walked into the house.
Luke saw his mother still standing by the fence and walked out to meet her.
"Do you think he'll buy it, Mom?"
"What, dear?"
"The gun. He knows I've been asking for one, but tell him, Mom, not those sissy 22's. I want a 38."
"I don't think it's a good idea," she said worriedly. "What do you need a gun for?"
"Jeez, Mom, you've been in the house too long. I need one!" he finished angrily. "Fence, fence - that goddam fence. You've spent a fortune on it. If I had that 38, none of those bastards would set foot around here. Have you forgotten about the cat?"
"No, I haven't, but it'll be different now that the fence is up."
They both walked toward the house, caught in their separate thoughts.
Mr. Held, Jr. from the Local 1277 phoned and made an appointment for the following Wednesday. Christine felt that fate or God or somebody was on her side for Anderson phoned Tuesday morning with the terse message, "It's here – it’ll be about twenty minutes."
She leashed the dogs, holding onto the excited animals while looking out the front window. She couldn't decide whether or not to turn them on. The artificial aggression from the pills made them snarl and snap at anything; their altered state didn't allow them to differentiate between friend and foe.
Soon the armed vehicle pulled up. She had her hand on the lock. Anderson only had to walk about ten feet. She saw the guard step out with him. The guard swiveled from side to side with the machine gun poised. Anderson strained as he pulled the heavy cart toward the door. Perfectly timed, she swung the front door open and as it closed, reactivated the burglar alarm.
"I've asked them to wait," Anderson said. "Work's piled up at the office."
"I can manage."
Absentmindedly he pecked her cheek, opened the door and walked back to the van, got in, and was driven away.
"Good," she sighed with relief. "The man from the Union is coming in the morning."
She lifted the lid on the trunk and caressed the stacks of bills. Remembering, she turned the alarm on again and then began the tedious job of carrying the stacks of money to the almost empty room.
The next morning, Mr. Held, Jr. was an hour and a half early. He didn't mention it and neither did she. His armed guards waited outside. After ushering him into the elegant living room, Christine asked if he'd like some refreshment. "Coffee, tea, a coke?"
He looked around the room. You can bet these bastards still have some, he thought. "Scotch - I'd prefer Scotch," he said.
Christine started to reach for the bell rope to call Rosa; it was so easy to forget that she wasn't there anymore. She got up and went to the liquor cabinet thinking, good, he'll mellow out - let him drink.
"How do you like it?"
"Straight. I like to taste my liquor." And for some reason he laughed as if he had made some sort of joke.
She poured a hefty half glass, which he drank in one gulp.
"Sit down, Mr. Held. Make yourself comfortable. Another?"
He belched loudly as he sank heavily into the goose down chair. "Don't mind if I do. That stuff tastes pretty damn good."
After handing him a second, almost full glass, she sat opposite him and nervously smoothed her skirt. He moved his clipboard from hand to hand, as he sipped the drink, and then he placed the damp glass on her gleaming mahogany table.
Waving his hand around he explained, "It's like this, missus. I've got to coordinate about five unions - carpenters..."
Not meaning to, she interrupted him. "There's no wood involved."
"I know, I saw the fence, but it's construction regardless. As I was saying, carpenters, brick layers, concrete to sink the posts, electricians, general construction, iron workers. Five, at least five unions involved here. I could get to it in about two or three months."
"Months!" she gasped. "I can't wait that long. It's illness you see..." groping for a story, any story. "My mother, she's not well. She needs to sit outdoors on days when the winds of forgetfulness are down and the smog is tolerable. She's not well. She needs air – fresh air."
Held, Jr. looked around as if expecting to see this old woman who needed fresh air. "Ah," he nodded.
"What you really need is priority. The original estimate was in the neighborhood of thirty grand, but priority doubles it."
She nodded as butterflies began dancing in her stomach. This was getting so expensive. "Priority, that's what I need."
"Well, with priority, we could get to it in about ten days."
"No, I need it now. My mother's health, you know." She realized she sounded sharp. But he only smiled.
"You mean like tomorrow?"
"Yes, exactly. Tomorrow would be great."
"Why didn't you say so? You were asking for the wrong thing. You need priority, priority - runs about eighty."
"Eighty thousand?"
"Yep, that'll cover it."
At least he hadn't tripled it. The fence was becoming something totally unmanageable, but she had come this far. And they needed the fence erected. It was no good to them laying staked down on the front lawn.
Mr. Held, Jr. leaned comfortably back in the chair and lit a cigarette. Christine noticed the packet - "Acapulco Gold" – one of Anderson’s accounts.
Looking around at the paintings on the wall, Held commented, "Nice stuff you got here. I remember this kinda stuff. My mom took me to one of them museums when I was just a kid. Yep, I remember this kinda thing."
The pungent smell of the marijuana filled the room. He sipped the Scotch slowly now. Good combination - fine liquor, good grass - not bad, not bad at all. Ashes flicked unnoticed by him on the fine oriental carpet. Christine winced. But wanting to get back on track, she ventured, "What time tomorrow? Maybe I could have the coffee pot on for your men."
"Guys would prefer this, I'm sure." He tilted the glass and belched noisily.
At the door he turned to her. "We need half the money to start."
"Certainly," she agreed.
Rude and uncouth, she thought. I can't give away all of Anderson's Scotch. Two bottles - that's all I'll bring out. When she leaned down to sweep away the ashes, she saw the burn hole in the carpet. Wearily, she moved the chair. The leg now covered the burn, but it was still there. That's how life had become - a hole in everything and society constantly moving a chair to hide what it could not bear to see anymore.
Elias's Fence Page 4
