When she saw the small clusters of men on the street corners, the words "Idleness is the root of all evil" ran through her mind from some forgotten passage. Those men, clustered in groups, were united by their lack of purpose.
The smell of grass filled the bus. Two small boys about ten giggled and drew on the cigarette. The bus lurched - nobody noticed - and the thick smoke swirled above their heads. Across the seat, the young couple who up to now had been lost in an embrace, separated. The girl, pretty, young - perhaps fifteen or sixteen - aroused, lifted her skirt, removed her pants, climbed astride the boy and they proceeded to mate. Her hair bobbed as she rhythmically rode him. No one noticed. She moaned appreciatively until he lay back, used, wasted. The girl stopped, disgusted.
"Listen, you ain't so much. All talk."
"Wait. I mean I'm wasted. I'm not usually like this," the boy apologized.
He flicked his greasy blonde hair out of his eyes, embarrassed. But the effort was too much. His head lolled back - drunk, wasted - his jeans still unzipped and his organ, limp, dripping on his jeans. The girl stood in front of him on the lurching bus, holding the bar and making a concerted effort to put on her pants. Angry and frustrated, she looked at Christine, young and defiant, her eyes hard as steel.
"What are you looking at, you...you old bitch. It's a free country, ain't it? I got my rights."
The girl rang the bell and before the bus stopped she shook the boy. "Listen, forgot to tell you. I got Aids." Jauntily she stepped off the bus and stood at the bus stop blowing him kisses. "Later on, baby, later on."
The passengers sat mute. Some hadn't noticed, but the Christines left in the world pretended it had never happened.
At 12th Street, Christine rang the bell and got off. She saw him immediately - like an omen - a tall, uniformed policeman. Everything would go well, she was certain of it.
She walked the one short block to the Liberty Building. The cool grey marble of the lobby never seemed to change. Insurance companies would last forever. The grey, uniformed guards allowed her to use the house phone.
"I'm Mrs. Thorpe - 32 Portland Place. Insurance number 482/7032. I'm in the lobby. I want to pay my premium - in cash."
On the third elevator, her escort came down. He took her prints and fed them into a computer. That, coupled with an affirmative voice print convinced them that she was, indeed, Mrs. Thorpe, a genuine client, come to pay her premium.
They rode the elevator in silence and she was shown to a privacy booth. She retrieved the cache of bills and it was counted by two employees. She was given the adhesive receipt for the cash payment and again entered the privacy booth. She taped the receipt to the small of her back and was then escorted back down to the cool grey lobby.
"Half way there." It escaped her lips.
"What'd you say?" the guard asked. "You talking to me?"
"No, I'm sorry, I was thinking out loud."
Half way there - the thought was reassuring. She smiled as she passed the policeman and crossed the street at the square under the statue of Dr. Spock. It was then that he hit her.
Cruising - he had been cruising - like a shark in dim grey waters. He came from between the cars, out of the garbage, between the rows of scurrying people. He came, zeroed in on her and her large white purse. He was small, wiry, strong - about twelve. His razor cut the straps of her purse. With that prize in his possession, he didn't want to overlook anything. He pushed her to the pavement right by the curb. His hands, like two greedy crabs, sought under her dress and in her bra.
"Help! Help!" she screamed at the top of her voice.
People walked past her - men and women pretending not to see her - looking straight ahead. No one cared as she fought the young savage child in the gutter. His hand snaked up her skirt, feeling, feeling for hidden cash. She resumed screaming. Then savagely he grabbed her throat.
"No use to call nobody," his large mouth screamed at her as his eyes rolled with glee. "Nothing nobody can do, lady. I'm a juvenile."
He spit the word in her face - "Juvenile". He saw her gaze wander across the street. "The pig can't help you, lady. This ain't his district. And even if it was, I told you I'm a juvenile."
Finally, satisfied that she had nothing else to get, he kept the purse, released her, and ran like a young athlete - dodging the people on the sidewalk, the city his football field. He scored.
She stood up thinking yes, that’s Dr. Spock and his many generations of instant gratification. She straightened her stocking and stopped herself. Better to look disheveled, then they would know that she had already been hit. He had only gotten $100. She still had the bus fare.
She didn't reach for the twenty coiled in her hair until the bus was in sight. The scanner accepted the bill and she sat close to the driver - her childhood habit.
Across from her she saw the pass; the two men feeling each other. And in front of her an addict lifted his trousers and searched for a vein. She remembered a skill from years ago. Could she still do it? It was something that she invented as a protection from her mother and from the Sunday night revivals when they promised death and brimstone - a protection from herself when she became afraid of going insane.
"Driver, can you call Portland Place when we get there?" she asked politely.
No ma'am," he replied just as politely. "I don't get paid for calling the stops. I just drive the bus."
The old woman sitting next to her tugged at her sleeve. "I'll tell you when - that's where I get off."
"Thank you." And she felt good. Only the very old still had courtesy.
It was all right. She could still use the protection. She called it down - the veils - and soft white lengths of gauze gathered and spread around her. The addict became dimmer through the veil. And the two men across the aisle - the one on his knees faded. She no longer had to look at them. The bus swayed and she felt at peace. She still had it - the power. Layers and layers, until she was in a cocoon of gauze, protected like a moth.
A soft voice pronounced, "Portland Place is the next stop."
She struggled to get through. The veils fell. She counted them. Thirteen veils of shimmering white gauze lay crumpled at her feet. She thanked the woman, carefully stepped over the cloth, and got off the bus.
Wearily she walked up the street. How tired and old she felt, but it was like this - it had always been like this - to return.
She saw the gates. Like the veils, they were protection. She walked through the open gates, closed them, and activated the current, and she felt that perhaps she would never leave. Where were the quiet nuns in black to reassure her that somewhere there was a better world? She needed that reassurance - craved it. Oh how she wished they were here, under the shadow of the fence, to comfort her - to promise her paradise.
Then she saw the unbelievable, the solitary piece of mail. The postman had delivered it after all. He had actually walked forty steps to the porch, lifted the box, and left her some mail. Amazing!
She opened the door, but it was premature. The dogs struggled with the chemicals still in their bodies and growled at her.
"It's okay, it's me," she cooed. "It's okay. Good dogs."
Puzzled, the largest of the dogs wagged its tail, growled and bit her hand, and then crawled under the table, ashamed. He was caught between his loyalty and the programmed aggression.
Her hand throbbed and bled on the paper as she unfolded it. The United States Post Office had actually delivered it - "The Underground Press".
She sank to the floor exhausted and faint, the dogs both lay under the table ashamed. She lay back. No one must know. She lay in the marble hall, her eyes riveted to the open door of Anderson's study. The paper - the wallpaper - boats, armies of boats waiting at the seven mile limit. It was so long ago. That's how it started - where they waited when it was illegal.
Boats sunk low in the sea, filled to the brim with their ominous cargo. Like bottles adrift on the sea, they contained a message, a present. Gifts from the East had come to melt the chi
ldren.
The plaque on Anderson's wall leapt out at her, the words scrambled as if she had dyslexia -
"Let there be night."
Chapter 5
It had been a bad night. Christine heard them - the street people. By moonlight she saw their shadows lurking in the alley - a group of men, three or maybe four. Shadowed faces looking up at her fence. She heard the hiss as one of the men threw a stick, a can, something that clattered on the cobblestones - testing.
"It's electric," she spat aloud. "Touch it, you'll see."
A barrage of objects rained on the fence like hail. The repeated hiss made her think of an angry snake that was aroused. It was a comforting sound.
The men dispersed and she went back to bed to try and sleep restlessly for another couple of hours. It was sounds coming from the west bathroom that woke her again at about seven.
She knocked softly on the unlocked door and pushed it open to find Rachael on her knees in front of the toilet.
"What's the matter?"
Her daughter turned toward her, wiping her mouth. "Flu, it feels like the flu."
"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry. Can I get you anything?"
"No, Mom, I'll be okay. I feel better now after..." She indicated the bowl and flushed.
On rubbery legs, Rachel stood. "I'll just go back to bed for now."
"I'll bring you some tea and some toast."
"No, Mom, I just wanna sleep. Maybe later."
"Sure, honey. I'll bring it up later after Dad and the boys have gone. Oh, are the boys OK?"
"I think so. It's just been going around in my class."
"Spring, as nice as it is - it does have its down side," Christine commented.
Her daughter closed the door to her room. Poor baby, she thought. Flu isn't any fun, that's for sure.
Rachael lay down and stared at the roses on the wallpaper. She ran her tongue over her teeth - the minty taste of the mouthwash was refreshing. She patted her stomach gently, sure that that was all for today. The morning sickness was becoming an everyday occurrence. This was the first time her mother had heard her in the bathroom. I've got to do something about it soon, she thought as she turned over and fell back to sleep.
After Anderson and the boys left, Christine tiptoed up to her daughter’s room and found Rachael sleeping peacefully. She went back to the kitchen and sat down to have her second cup of coffee with the underground paper spread out on the table before her. It was two months out of date, and she had no idea things had gotten so bad. The vivid, descriptive articles gave her goosebumps. The murders - hundreds of them in the wasteland - and private people viciously killed in their homes and on the streets.
Very little was reported about the killings in the wasteland. The homeless, nameless people were reduced to bare numbers with very little detail except for the one line that chilled her to the bone - evidence of cannibalism had now been reported in the wasteland and was becoming widespread. She skipped the rest of the article - she didn't want to know.
It was the article about immigration that started her mind spinning. People were leaving America by the thousands, bound for the Orient or Australia and New Zealand. Now that Australia was a free Republic with no attachments, the country was thriving. Positive aspects of life flourished there: plenty of work, good schools, adequate housing, pure air, water you could drink, and land - acres and acres of it. Religion was not outlawed and churches were abundant and filled with worshippers.
She read the requirements for immigration. Two million dollars in currency or one million gold. Nuclear families welcomed.
Excited now, she went to Anderson's study and punched up "Australia" on the computer. Five stars - a troubled area. Nothing sold in Australia - no cereal, cola, dope, or child pornography. They didn't even allow organ transplant auctions or euthanasia or winds of forgetfulness.
If those things were unacceptable to the Aussies, then surely it was a perfect place to raise a family. She felt elated. There was hope left in the world.
She heard the intercom buzz. Rachael's voice came to her. "Mom, can I have something to drink. How about some Nirvana?"
"Ok, sweetie, I'll bring up something."
She certainly wasn't going to take her Nirvana. She thought it contained drugs - unknown drugs. Anderson never really answered her questions about its contents. Looking through the cupboard, she also dismissed that special tea Anderson always brought home. She'd go for the simple lemon tea. She filled the Limoges pot, sliced the lemon thin, and put the sugar cubes in the silver caddy that had been her mother's. Glancing out of the window, she spied one lonely iris blooming. What a pleasure - since the fence she could actually open the door.
She stepped into the yard and cut the one lonely flower. Litter blew against her legs and the sight of the messy yard filled her with energy. Her new freedom would allow her to go out and clean it up. Good, it would feel good being outside in the air, creating order.
The purple iris in the crystal vase gave the simple tray of tea and toast a festive air. Putting the tray down on the bedside table, Christine started to sit on the edge of the bed, but saw Rachael's look and changed her mind and took the side chair.
"Shall I pour?"
"I'm not a baby, Mom," Rachael said angrily as she poured the tea.
She sipped noisily and screwed up her face. "It's not Ranchpor!"
"No, I thought a simple lemon would be a change."
"But Dad always..."
"Never mind," Christine said. "Lemon one time can't hurt."
"I guess not," Rachael agreed.
"Before you nap, I thought maybe we could talk," Christine ventured tentatively.
"About what?"
"You know - girl talk. The world's so different from when I grew up. Very different. For instance, take love - people weren't so easy then, with giving it away."
"Love," Rachael said with a smirk beginning on her face.
"Well, you know, there were proper families - Mother, Dad, children - not like now with all those unwed mothers, different casual partners. Love was a lot more special then. It doesn't hurt to wait for the right one."
"You mean like for sex?"
Rachael's question had Christine blushing - and she was supposed to be the mother enlightening her child.
"Yes, like sex. In my day people waited till they were married."
"They did? When you married Dad were you a virgin?"
"Yes, I was. And you know, Rachael, there were a lot of girls much prettier than I was, and smarter, and with a lot more going for them, but your dad picked me."
Rachael sat up and clasped her knees in both hands. He liked your purity," she mocked. "How funny, Dad liked your snow-white purity."
This was going so wrong. She couldn't talk to Rachael any more than she could talk to Anderson. Jumping up abruptly, she said, her voice weary, "Get some rest. I'll be in the yard cleaning. Just call out the window if you need anything."
She closed the door and Rachael flung herself into the pillows to smother her laughter. She laughed and laughed until she realized nothing was really funny at all. In the pit of her stomach a funny flurry began; she felt empty - so empty. She went to the window and saw her mother in the yard picking up the trash. Surprised, Rachael found tears springing to her eyes. It was always like this - sometimes she felt so scared, so alone, that she wanted to be held and hugged and told that everything was okay. She needed something.
She needed Nirvana. She ran downstairs two steps at a time. With the refrigerator door open, she took big gulps from the pitcher of Nirvana until it was gone and that funny feeling in her stomach left.
Numbness bloomed and rose like a stain from her toes to her brain. Good, she thought, that's how it should be, numb. Slowly she walked upstairs and went back to bed.
Christine continued picking up the litter. It would be better now, she thought, now that they had the fence. The garbage of the world was so distasteful to her; yet letting it lay there was unthinkable.
&nbs
p; She went back to the porch and rooted around looking for her gardening gloves. She found them under a stack of seed catalogs and two packets of daisy seeds from four years ago.
Examining the seeds gave her a renewed sense of hope. Maybe they were still good. She'd plant them right now, today. No need for this terrible lethargy. Everything was here - the rocks, the clippers, and the trowels from the basement - all these familiar things which had been unused and forgotten. But now they had their yard back. It was no longer a highway for the transients of the world. She would restore it. It would be a yard with shrubs and beautiful flowers. She had always had a green thumb. Because of the fence - the marvelous fence - she had a piece of her life back. She had snatched it back.
Christine hurried upstairs and put on her slacks, a comfortable sweater, and sensible shoes. She began working on the rock garden first.
The hour she spent in the spring sunshine felt wonderful. She found herself humming, "He's tramping in the vineyards where the grapes of wrath are stored...Glory, glory, hallelujah..." She sang the chorus over with gusto.
Looking around she could see progress. One section of the yard was now neat and orderly. She felt a blister forming on her thumb from the clippers, but she didn't care. She decided to plant some seeds by the old fish pond. Maybe they'd grow there. She decided they'd fill the pond up and fill it with French carp. It would be so comforting to see the large golden fish swimming round and round the pond among a field of lovely water lilies.
Oh – there was so much she needed to do. Anderson would just have to take off one afternoon so they could buy the seeds, the fertilizers, and the fish.
It was a pain that she didn't drive any more, but with the way things were she was far too nervous. And when things had gotten so bad, the cost of renovating the cars - putting in shatter-proof, bullet-proof glass, getting non-puncturable tires – was prohibitive. The needed safety locks for all the doors and the hood was exorbitant, so when Anderson had his car renovated, she told him to sell hers. She knew she wouldn't drive it. So her car had gone...was it four years ago? It seemed so much longer.
Elias's Fence Page 6
