Even the golden carp, swimming in the pond, gave her no pleasure. Due to a careless employee, the fish selected hadn't been the same size - the smallest was chased and battered and within a week he was dead.
In spite of the surprises which were intended to be so nice, she felt Anderson's chill. He was not genuine. It was love she wanted and missed. How could she go on loving them when they did not love her back.
It was this place; this house; this city; this society that had changed them. It could be different somewhere else. She truly believed that.
She found comfort in the attic, for among the stored books she had found an Atlas - and over and over she read the facts about Australia. She even memorized the longitude and latitude. If you wanted something badly enough, it would happen - no, it should happen.
Damn - damn - she cursed herself. That's what’s wrong - I doubt.
The only dialogue possible was with herself and sometimes she found the forgotten Christine in the mirror - and the one who looked back was confident, strong, stubborn, goal oriented.
That was Christine then, before being told over and over, "You're nervous, you're childish, you're high strung, you know how you get." Those words - how many years had they been repeated? Over and over until they stuck in her mind and it accepted them. He had done this to her - he had programmed her to become what she had become.
The other voice, the irate one who usually defended her, said "Stupid, he loves you, look at all he provides."
Chapter 12
Christine patrolled the yard faithfully now. At least the litter was gone. With care, she watered and weeded the new garden Anderson had given her. Still, all her efforts did not correct the area by the fence; plant food, water, careful tending were in vain.
The two foot strip of barren earth would not grow. Lately, she had found dead birds in that area, and atop the dirt she had noticed earth worms stretched out and stiff as nails.
Curious, she shivered in the sunlight.
A flat white sheet of paper flapped against the fence. Remembering the ominous notes, she was reluctant to touch it, but its flapping in the wind annoyed her. Carefully reaching between the bars, she retrieved the paper - a later issue of The Underground Press.
Taking the paper into the kitchen, she slid past the anxious dogs, who longed to be outside. "Sorry, puppies, the fence is on." Her guilt made her reach for a handful of doggie treats and they grabbed them in salivating jaws and retreated under the table.
What she read in The Underground Press was like looking at her guts, her mind, her fears laid out clearly on paper, done up in columns of newsprint. The headlines blazed her worst fears, even predicting the day the last plane would leave America - June 13. She must do something!
According to the paper, the only safe, sane places left on earth were the Orient and Australia. The Oriental countries would accept no Occidentals, but Australia - still mellow, still pure and unaware - was permitting immigration as long as one was responsible, white, and had ample funds - two million currency or one million gold.
The day passed in a dream. Christine read the column about immigration to Australia over and over. The answer was there - she had to make Anderson see it.
As she cleared away after dinner, she heard Matthew and Luke arguing about which channel to watch. She knew it was the Monday night porno flicks, but her discovery was too important to worry about the boys and their sex education.
She made her way to Anderson's study. He had earphones on, listening to the tapes. He regulated the buttons and flicked on and off video tapes of commercials at the same time. He had the concentration to do many things at the same time. His multi-tasking was superb.
The room was very much like Anderson himself; sedate colors in perfect taste - expensive leather chairs, gleaming wood, desk, and a special wall of shelves that displayed the many Emmys he had won for his ad campaigns and commercials. He was a brilliant man with a charisma that he regulated with an on and off button. He chose not to turn it on at home. Here he was closed, introspected, and totally preoccupied. Now she could see the annoyance in his face as he removed the earphones and impatiently clicked off all the buttons.
"What is it? You can see I'm very busy."
She stood before him, like a pathetic salesman with tattered cuffs, clutching the paper. "I have to talk to you, it's really important."
He sighed, leaned back in his chair, determined to get rid of her quickly. "What is it, Christine. Is it the garden? I thought you'd be pleased to have it finished, and the pond - I knew you wanted that done. But if there's something else, give me the list. Whatever it is, I'll tend to it," he promised, expecting her to go away.
She clutched the paper like a lifeline.
"If that's the list, give it to me." He held out his hand.
Eagerly, she handed it to him and the words in her nervous anxiety spilled out. "Anderson, it's not a list. The garden's very nice. I love it. I appreciate everything you've done, but that's not important now."
He looked at the paper, threw back his head and roared with laughter. "Where did you get this?"
"It was in the mailbox."
"In the mailbox?" he asked, not believing her.
"Yes. I know we haven't had any mail for a long time. Can you imagine my surprise when I found it, read it? Anderson, it's so scary. It says the last plane to leave America will be on June 13th." She couldn't imagine why she had lied to him about the mailbox.
He opened the paper and skimmed the pages with an amused smile. "You're on somebody's sucker list, my dear. Did they ask for a donation while they were at it?"
"No, no, it’s nothing like that. I haven't seen anybody. No one has called. It was in the mailbox," she continued to lie.
"That's remarkable in itself," he said with icy sarcasm.
"Everything printed there seems to be true," she said defensively. Finally she sat down dejectedly in a chair across from him, knowing she had lost. He would see no sense to any of it. For a brilliant man, he had no vision. Still, her maternal instincts, the desire to protect her children, made her go on.
He leafed through the pages and she saw the maddening half smile on his face. He carefully folded the paper and laid it down on the gleaming table in front of him. "Now, my dear, tell me what it is you want. No, no, let me guess. We should pack up and try to sneak into Japan. We could all dye our hair jet black, have our eyes slanted, mispronounce our r's, and try to sneak in." He smirked cruelly, playing with her. "No? Oh, I'm sorry, Christine. How stupid of me. It's not the Orient, it's Australia - the promised land."
"Anderson, please don't make fun of me. Australia sounds safe. Everything here is so out of control..." she finished helplessly.
"The only thing out of control is you. You worry and you drive me crazy. First it was the fence. Now we have the fence, and I'm a lot poorer, but the minute it's up, it's the flowers, the seeds. Now it's something else. Christine, grow up."
She looked down in her lap at her shaking hands. "It's the children - I just want to keep them to be safe."
He knew this look of hers. He knew this calling that she felt and he knew what such an idea could do to her. A campaign would be launched from something she had read somewhere in some obsolete book on "How to Care for Your Man and Get What You Want". Shrimp Amandine would appear on the menu suddenly - it always did when she wanted something. Years ago, when he had been interviewed for an article in "Who's Who In Advertising", he had stated that Shrimp Amandine was his favorite gourmet dish. It wasn't. He had never tasted it. But in those days he was working on obtaining the Consolidated Sea Food account and that little bit of information did it. A week later he was given the okay - and he had made a lot of money from that account over the years.
Christine knew he disliked shrimp, but somehow she couldn't ignore that article in print that made it true - so he knew Shrimp Amandine would be on the menu very soon.
And the sheer white gown would emerge from its hiding place in the bottom drawer.
When he sat in bed reading reports, he would see her going back and forth in the hall and then sitting in front of her dressing table for hours, in what she thought was a provocative pose, brushing her hair, hoping he would notice.
When the white negligée didn't produce the desired results, then the black slinky gown was trotted out and she would go through the same routine until finally he'd say: "Christine, please go to your room, I'm tired" and she'd lie stiffly in bed wondering if he would come to her. He never did. That was not what he dreamed about anymore. It was not woman's flesh that quickened his blood and aroused his manhood. Oh no, he had outgrown things like that a long time ago. And so she would lie in the dark waiting - waiting - ashamed she had tried those tired weapons on him.
He would avoid the campaign if possible. Patiently, he began. "Now what is it, Christine?" He reached over and gently patted her hand. "What is it that you thought about? What ideas did the paper give you that you want to discuss?" He looked at her eyes and saw the raw desperation there. He would be patient - let her talk about it.
Surprised, she tried to collect her thoughts. She must begin at the beginning - must make it sensible. He was a business man - she must show him the logic.
"Well, I was thinking...in the olden days, when countries or places became oppressive, people - families - gathered all their strength and possessions and gambled. They went on to new worlds."
He nodded, listening with an attentive look on his face. "Go on," he prompted.
"Well, I know it's asking a lot, but I thought we could sell the house and go to Australia and begin again - in a new world - a safe world for us and our children."
He nodded and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "What about my agency? I own it, you know. I just chuck it away - this company I've built?"
"Well, no, maybe you could open an office in Australia and let Morgan run the company here."
He shook his head. "No, I can't do that. Morgan couldn’t run it," he said.
"Well, I noticed on the computer that in Australia all your products do badly - none of your products seem to sell there. Maybe... Oh, Anderson, you're so persuasive, you could make a success of it. I know you could."
He was surprised, so surprised that he stayed silent. He hadn't realized that she knew anything about the computer or the figures kept on Australia. He was truly surprised and saddened, for it was a shame that she hadn't grown up with him. She could have enjoyed life so much.
"Australia is out," he stated flatly. "So what you're asking is for me to chuck all my success here out the window - throw it all away?"
"You're so brilliant," she pleaded. "You'd find a way to start an agency there just like you did here."
He nodded and lit his pipe. He would let her go through it point by point - then she would not have to go through her whole food and seduction campaign. Now that she had explained her position on his job, he would go through the other areas.
"Have you thought about how we could satisfy the financial requirement?"
"Oh yes, we could sell the house."
He templed his fingers, then explained, "Houses aren't selling now with interest at fifty percent."
"We could sell the stock. We have so much."
"Stock market's rumored to be closing. No one's buying stock, so therefore no one's selling," he said calmly.
She stopped, her breath coming in gasps, she rung her hands. He was being so quiet, but like a brick wall that was tall and obstructive.
"Anderson, if we decided to go, you'd find a way. And I'd scrimp - we'd find somebody to buy the house. It’s a lovely house."
He smiled. She felt his mood change. "Maybe you could fire up your kiln and sell some of those marvelous pots you used to make."
How cruel he could be.
She wouldn't, she simply wouldn't cry. She was fighting so hard for hers and her children's lives. Like the sun passing behind clouds, his mood altered, again seeming very serious, but still making fun of her.
"Christine, what you're telling me is that if we don't have Shrimp Amandine too often we could make it?"
She gulped and promised herself that she wouldn't, simply wouldn't cry.
"Christine, we simply don't have fifty million dollars plane fare and the required two million cash - unless perhaps somebody died and we could collect the insurance."
That did it. The tears she had held back with such effort spilled down her cheeks. "That's unforgivable, Anderson. You have no right to be so cruel."
He came over to her and gently eased her head against his tweed jacket, patting her shoulder comfortingly. "Honey, there's no way," he said softly. "There, there," as he rocked her slowly.
She sobbed softly against him, her voice muffled. The hope still lived within her somewhere. "If you would just say we could," she pleaded, "we'd find a way."
"There, there...," still rocking her slowly and patting her with a gentleness she hadn't felt in him for years. She smiled up at him. Tomorrow she'd make Shrimp Amandine. She wondered if her white gown was clean...maybe after all this time he would notice.
"Just say you'll think about it," she said with a coquettishness that made him sick. He saw the menus and seductions being planned in her mind.
Gently he released her and walked over to the computer. "Your paper was a little off, or shall we say a little behind the times. The requirements for Australia now are different. The flood of immigrants forced them to reevaluate their requirements. Christine, did you know people cheat? People always ruin their goose that lays the golden egg."
It was there again, that cruel mocking quality was back in his voice. "People were paying others to adopt their children and take them to Australia. So every new family showing up was hopping off the plane with ten or eleven children - three of their own and seven or eight adopted. Those Aussies aren't idiots, you know."
He paused and punched up the numbers. "Australia - Immigration Requirements today are people to be Caucasian with two million currency, one mill gold, and no more than two children for each married couple."
She stared at him and at the screen in disbelief - two children. Two children? That number swam in her head. They had three!
In the past, Anderson always seemed to be able to bend the rules. Take the case of her mother - he had fixed that.
Anderson seemed to read her mind. "No, my dear, I have no influence in Australia; I have no politicians in my pocket there and even money wouldn't buy a bent rule there. Like everyone else, we're stuck with their requirements - like it or not."
He seemed to enjoy her confusion. His eyes glinted with a metallic cruelness. "Well, my dear, there goes that dream - unless, of course, you can figure out where to get two million and lose one of your babies. But I'm sure that won't stop you. I can see those thoughts forming and squirming in your mind. I know how you hate anything unpleasant, but I can't see any solution except perhaps one."
She knew she shouldn't listen - that she should leave. She saw it in the lines of his jaw, stiff and unrelenting. Still, she wasn't prepared for it.
"Unless, Christine," he said quietly, "maybe, to use an old colloquialism, you could sacrifice one of your babies. Isn't that what the old gods demanded - sacrificial lamb? Maybe, you need to bring to the altar a fresh lamb, it's throat scarlet and gurgling, staining the soft white wool."
He was a spell-binder and it came through as he finished, the timbre of his voice as dramatic, making the scene live.
Her mind reeled. She felt dizzy. Was this what was really demanded - a sacrifice? She saw it – his description of the lamb. It was sacrificed many times, on many days, in many ways.
His words haunted her. I do not have anything to sacrifice. But a thought, a whisper of hope, caught like a seed in the pavement. Just a crack of dry earth, but the elm tree grew sturdy - hard, impossible to kill - sliced, shaved, sawed down, only to resprout and again grow until its branches, its leaves, its shadow, surrounded her in total darkness.
Chapter 13
His word stuck
in her mind like a sharp pin. Sacrifice. Yes, gods do and always have demanded a sacrifice.
She whirled around the house, going from thing to thing...tasks begun only to be left unfinished. In the yard she surveyed the grounds and saw improvement.
She stared at the angels on the fence, their tear-stained faces offered to the grey sky and spring rain. In the crow's call, the dog's bark, in the rustle of leaves, she heard the same word repeated - Sacrifice. It slipped past her lips - "Please God."
Somewhere in the world people lived by rules; people believed in things; people believed in God. In the dark night, they still coaxed, "Please God". How long had it been since she had said those words - "Please God". It had been so long since she had looked at an oak tree. "Please God." Years since they had been to the sea and seen the ocean rolling in its everchanging rhythm. "Please God."
It must have gone back to when the children were babies and the uncontrollable fears lurked like blind shadows around their cribs. The enormous fears, the endless list of Please Gods. "Please God, don't let them get hit by a car." Camping trips- "Please God, don't let them drown in the swirling waters." Trips to the country - "Please God, don't let them get kicked by a horse." Temperatures soaring in the night - "Please God, don't let it be meningitis."
She remembered the endless lists she had voiced then. Somehow it had always been a trade-off. She would give up something and God would always come through. They were small, her sacrifices then - a trip, a hairdo, a possession, something she coveted, something she would do without. But now she had lost God, left him singing with the high erratic voices of the devout in forgotten pews - years ago in the country. Now that he was remembered, and brought back to her attention, she knew he would demand a sacrifice.
Elias's Fence Page 10
