The heavy scent of the grass made her dizzy. She went upstairs to lie down. And she fell asleep to the sound of the dogs barking loudly. The sound rose and fell as they ran from window to window. She was safe. There were bars, alarms, and dogs - and soon there would be an electric fence.
It was the third day of putting up the fence that it happened. The men had been crawling over the lawns, mainlining drugs and pissing on the few living flowers, and she had given away two cases of Anderson's Scotch. It was a mistake - they worked slower than ever.
On the second day, there was even an incident of fornicating on the lawn. The circle of men stopped to watch the men engaged in sex.
She tried to ignore whatever she could, for the main stakes were in the concrete and several sections of cross bars were up. Christine tried to take consolation in the fact that her fence - as well as looking strong - was beautiful. Those tiny, weeping angels looked up to the heavens.
It will be good, she told herself.
She wondered about the man who had made the fence - Elias Jacob Pogue. He was a good, devout man, she was sure, or how could he have fashioned such a thing of beauty.
She didn't know about inanimate objects, that they could absorb good or evil. Mr. Kramer knew about this, for his skin and the many boils knew. He felt the evil vibration of the fence.
It was about noon on the third day when it happened. Shouts, screams, sections of fence dropped, the metal clanging loudly.
"What's happened?" Christine ran to the front door and stepped outside. "Mr. Held," she called, looking around the group of men for him. "What's happened?" she asked a passing workman.
Ignored, she rushed forward to where the men were gathering. In the circle she found him. "Mr. Held, what is it? What's wrong?"
"There..." He pointed toward a man lying on the ground, writhing.
The man moaned ominously and from his lips a bloody foam oozed. His fingers twitched. From between his purple lips, he tried to utter a word. "Aaa...aaa."
"Has he hurt himself?" she asked.
"Of course he's hurt. You can see that!" Held, Jr. yelled at her.
"How?"
"This man happens to be a fifth form atheist and those obscene figures... He's trying to say "Angels, angels".
"Oh..." Christine shrank back. "Shouldn't we call an ambulance?"
"Yes, do that right away before he dies of fright."
She rushed back to the house and dialed 911.
"Yes?" a curt voice said.
"Emergency! Please send someone right away to 32 Portland Place."
"What's the problem?" the operator asked.
"This is Mrs. Thorpe. I'm having a fence installed and one of the workmen is having some sort of fit."
"Does he have insurance?"
"I don't know. He's lying on the ground. He seems in great pain."
"Could you ask him?"
This was too much. "No, I couldn't!"
"Sorry, lady. Rules is rules."
"I have insurance. Won't that do?"
"Well, yeah, but I need the number."
She put the phone down and ran up the steps. She glanced out the window. The injured man seemed worse. He was now rolling and a couple of men were pouring beer over him. Christine grabbed the strongbox, scattering the papers everywhere. She picked up the phone and gave them the insurance policy numbers.
Back outside she assured Mr. Held. "They're coming, but they wanted insurance numbers. Surely the union has insurance?"
"Nope - not covered for religious mental anguish."
"I gave them my numbers. My policy will cover it."
Christine paced back and forth. Finally she heard the wail of a siren. The ambulance pulled up, crashed through a section of erected fence, and stopped. The driver stepped out.
"My brakes aren't the best," he explained. The two men strode over and broke through the crowd. Both looked down at the writhing man, hitched up their trousers, and the ambulance driver asked, "What's the trouble?"
Held stepped forward. "Religious mental anguish. This here worker's a fifth form atheist. The lady here has got herself one of them church fences. All them angels just got to him."
Both men nodded and looked up at the statues. The driver scratched his head. "I don't know... I just don't know about stuff like this."
It was too much for Christine. She pushed a card into his hand. "Here's my insurance number."
He looked at it puzzled. "Just hold on, lady. We got to get to the bottom of this. Religious what? did you say."
"I think he said religious anguish," Christine answered, trying not to sound sharp.
"That's just it," the man said. "We're not too sure about this. If it's contagious... we don't pick up any patients if they're contagious."
Held saw Christine wasn't getting anywhere, so he ushered the driver to the side, lit up a joint, and offered him a hit. "It's okay, this mind shit don't transfer. See, these other guys been working right along side of him - didn't catch a thing."
Finally convinced, the driver gave Christine back her card after writing down the number. "That's for the ambulance firm and hospital, but that's not us. We only work for cash. No sir, don't lift any bones living or dead without cash."
"How much?" she asked wearily.
"Well, since the guy's messy - all that spit - fees are usually $1000 each...but as I say, for the mess - possible contagion - we need another five."
"Five hundred extra?" she asked.
"Each," he stated.
When she came back from the vault, she saw they had rolled him onto the stretcher. He still mumbled "Angels, angels," as they closed the ambulance door.
The ambulance hit another section of fence while leaving and the next day Christine was presented with a bill from a lawyer. They had to settle out of court as she didn't want to get sued.
In two more days the fence was finally finished. It had cost a fortune, but Christine was sure it was worth it.
Chapter 4
The terror of the night stayed with Christine. The first night after the fence was completed she still tossed and turned. She admonished herself for forgetting, and she still slept poorly. When morning came, everything resumed its chameleon colors. The sun brought the facade of normality - like a raving maniac fallen asleep in a closet.
Christine put on her robe. She was bone weary - the many sleepless nights had taken their toll. It would take a while to get used to having the fence, but she would adjust. She would feel safe someday - now that they had an electrified fence.
She felt she should make a special breakfast. She retrieved the waffle mix and stirred the batter. The smell of fresh waffles greeted them as they came downstairs for breakfast.
Matthew came first. He sniffed suspiciously. "I want cereal."
"But Matt," she protested, "it's been a while since we had waffles."
But he was already in the cabinet, reaching for the bowls. "Mom, it's Dad's account," he argued.
The waffles cooled as the children replaced their still-full plates and wolfed down bowls of "Blast Off".
It would have seemed disloyal to protest, for Anderson had won an Emmy for that campaign and oh how he treasured those bronze statues. But Christine felt the cereal was pure junk food, like so many things, and she didn't approve of its high sugar base. She also knew it contained a small amount of cocaine, but - as ever - Anderson rationalized that with, "Christine, grow up. Coke has been in soft drinks for years."
The children ate, exchanged glances, and conversed in cryptic, slang ways. They paid no attention to her whatsoever, except when she wished they wouldn't.
"Anderson, the vault is really low. Do you know when you get more funds?"
He shook his head no, but the mention of money alerted the children.
"Is it pay day?" asked Rachael.
"No...I don't know," he corrected himself.
Silence - until the moist sounds of the cereal resumed.
"We had pay day last week," he glowered at Christ
ine.
Across the table, Christine ignored his outburst and continued. "I have to pay the insurance now that we have the fence, and our premium's gone way up - since the accident." She stopped and picked at her nails nervously. "We can't let the premiums get behind." Her voice trailed off.
He wasn't listening. No one was listening. They gathered up their books and briefcases and left in a group. She was grateful that Anderson always drove them to school. She walked to the gate with them and turned off the current. After they had gone through the huge iron gates and the gates were securely closed, she turned the current back on.
They had places to go, things to do, but she had nothing. Perhaps that's why she worried so much - about everything, everyone.
Christine wanted to feel the warmth of the sun. She walked through the garden and admired the magnificent fence. It was so sturdy, so strong, so beautiful. It would last forever. But the yard was in a sorry state. It was a mass of weeds and trash.
Christine's need for the familiar overwhelmed her. She wanted what no one could have - she wanted yesterday. Yesterday was orderly and familiar and it was before Anderson answered her every question, her every statement, with "Christine, grow up."
Yesterday there was an enormous swing set on the left and a sandbox under the oak tree. How she had enjoyed sitting on the chaise listening to the children's laughter. And daisies - in orderly plantings. She had a green thumb and the flowers were abundant - every vase in the house was filled with them all summer.
She wasn't completely without talent. With her kiln she had made many vases and statues. The hours spent arranging her flowers in her vases had been pure pleasure. And she had always given thoughtful hand-made gifts.
In those days she had sat on the chaise listening to the chatter of her children. Matthew always settled the disputes - surely he would be a lawyer. And Luke would be an architect - his sand castles were the biggest, the best, the most intricate. For hours he would mold and Christine thought someday he would be capable of building big, beautiful buildings - temples to the sun. And Rachael, her only girl, she was so special as she had the soul and imagination of a poet.
Was that so very long ago? Maybe Anderson was right - she worried too much. Where was the world going? She couldn't even guess. Change had come so swiftly it had passed her by. And she shivered, for her mind always knew what she dreamed so long ago. The recurring nightmare - the waves, the water, the danger - floating to them, landing on the shore like messages in glass bottles - half way around the world. The evil traveled in boats. To dream, to drift, to smoke, melting the children like ice cubes in the sun. She knew but could not explain the prophecy - the gifts from the East that was coming to melt the children. Not hers – her children were safe - they had only taken these mind altering drugs occasionally. At least that is what they told her - and she believed them.
She looked around at the wild, tangled garden. It was total chaos, but out of the chaos the only direction conceivable was order.
She walked through the yard, disdainful that it was hers and was in such disarray. Near the back fence the street people had left all sorts of debris - cans and cigarette butts - and she saw a message on a brown paper bag. She knew she shouldn't read it, but she reached through the fence, careful not to touch the metal, to crumple it and throw it away. Instead, she gathered the paper, smoothed it out. What could they possibly have to say to her?
With dreadful fascination, she read the note, the writing – crude and ominous, scribbled thick crayon words threatening her in the weak morning sun. It read:
"Lady of the hair like Sun. Your fence is the final insult. It shall not keep you safe. We are here. We watch. Again we will trample the roses, claw at your windows, and roast your cats. We will castrate your sons and hang them on your magnificent fence. You and your lovely daughter shall know our lust, our anger, our love - and your husband, he is the only one who shall live, with the memories like reels of movies in his head to see over and over.
Death to you.
She shivered uncontrollably. Where did they go? She looked down the twisted alley. Somewhere they hid out there, like toads under rocks. In the sunlight they were invisible.
I won't think about this crazy, crazy note, she told herself. Tomorrow, I'll think about tomorrow and nice things.
A garden. She felt a pressing need to do something, to correct something, to put things in order. That’s it, she thought. She needed to start a garden. She would lift the tangled bushes and cut them back to start anew. She would make rows - tidy, even rows - and plant flowers. It made her feel better. The visual planning corrected her reality. She felt better. She went into the house telling herself she wouldn't think about it and she put the note into the paper shredder.
She bolted the doors and started the laundry and then went to the cash room. It was low. Anderson didn't know when he would be paid again so they would have to scrimp.
She was so weary just thinking about all the housework - she missed Rosa in more ways than one. Before she did the chores, she would listen to the 12 o'clock news.
Mount Helena had erupted again and covered the state of Washington; the President had passed Amendment 269 to help the poor - the indigent who considered working would be paid $3,500 a month; a property owner in St. Louis had been found guilty of First Degree Murder - a transient had been electrocuted on his fence and the man was guilty of not having insurance, so he was sentenced to life in prison.
This last bit of startling news sent Christine scurrying back to the vault again. Her hands shook as she dropped the keys. Still fumbling, she finally managed to open the door. No matter how low the money was, she had to pay the insurance. A check would be unwise. What if someone - before the premium arrived - should meet with an unfortunate accident on their fence! No - she'd have to dress and go downtown now and pay the premium in cash.
Her allotment for Secure Transport was used up. That meant she would have to venture out and take her chances on Public Transport. The thought of actually going downtown was so frightening, but it was daylight and the Alley was empty - and the insurance must be paid.
Christine counted the huge stacks of money. She selected large bills and pinned a bundle in each side of her bra. She found the size 8 court shoes - the shoes purchased too large just for this purpose - and layered the soles with bills. Carefully, she unwrapped a sanitary napkin and laid a stack of bills inside and rewrapped the gauze. She put $100 in a big purse - the decoy. Finally, she took two twenties; she pinned one in her hair and coiled the bun up - secure, safe - the bus fare back; she held the other tightly in her hand. She took off her gold necklace that spelled her name – Christine. It was a gift from her children years ago. Anderson hated it, and she knew why – without the I – N – E it spelled His name. But she ignored his dislike. In this one thing she was adamant. “But the children gave it to me on my birthday,” she stated. “They were really little and it was thoughtful of them.”
The dogs wagged their tails hopefully, following her from room to room. They felt her fear and excitement. "No!" she snapped. "No, you're not going." She couldn't imagine why they remembered - it had been years since they had been taken on a walk.
The twin, handsome shepherds followed her to the front door panting. She hugged them both. She always thought of them as her dogs - her protectors. How many nights had they wailed at the doors, barked at the windows - keeping them out - keeping her safe.
She held out her hand. Both dogs were looking at her with their ears alert, but their tails were wagging slower now. They had been taught to obey, so they lapped up the pills. She went out the door and a moment later heard their guttural growling begin. On the special metal plate on the bottom of the door she heard claws tearing frantically. She pinned the card on the door in the event that someone came home before her. In bold threatening letters it read:
"BEWARE. THE DOGS ARE TURNED ON."
She opened the large iron gates and, with a sense of total fear, walked to the
bus stop. Anxiety clutched at her and she heard her heart hammering loudly in her ears. That note, that threatening note, were they out here?
As she walked down the street she passed the postman. It had been two or maybe even three years since she had seen him. With an unexpected rush of pleasure, she greeted him, pushing her anxiety aside.
"Hello, I'm Mrs. Thorpe - number thirty-two," she gushed as she pointed toward the house. "You used to deliver our mail. Remember? We have an electric fence now so I've got two mailboxes - one outside for when the fence is on and the same one by the door for when the fence is off and the gates are open."
He nodded, ignoring her chatter, leaning against the tree with the bag in front of him. He looked through the bag, sorting and discarding. At whim, white envelopes were rejected and the April wind took them dancing and sailing away.
Anger rushed to her face and was visible in its flush. She gulped, the words lost and caught somewhere in her throat. He looked at her, his eyes languid and lazy.
"I'm a government employee, you know - twenty-two years." It was a statement - flat and unadorned - and they both understood.
She crossed the street and stood by the sign. The rust had almost obliterated the words "Bus Stop - Downtown". Being in the streets was frightening. Public Service wasn't what it was years ago and she remembered what her mother had always said - "Always sit by the driver."
Cars passed, small, compact, foreign made - ram bars in front and back - windows tightly closed and shatterproof, the faces safely preserved behind the glass, grey and taut. She shifted from foot to foot with impatience and pretended that she had not received a threatening note that morning.
Downtown would be all right. She could stop trembling. Police weren't on strike there. It was only in the suburbs that the strike was into its seventh week.
The bus finally arrived. The driver put the twenty through the scanner and nodded approval. Two armed guards sat on the rear seat, looking bored. She sat in front, near the driver, and watched the buildings fly past as the neighborhoods worsened.
Elias's Fence Page 5
