What could she give? He was an angry God - a jealous God. She had left him, forgotten him. She needed to give up something to court his favor. She must trade out. Airline tickets - for what? Anderson's words haunted her. A sacrifice - this situation demanded a sacrifice. Then, in God's time, you brought a sacrificial lamb to him, to his altar, its throat cut, scarlet and gurgling, staining the coarse white wool.
Outside she swayed and felt the warm rain, found it as if it was a baptism calling her back into the fold. She had been raised with the Bible. Psalms were given her to memorize, like one gives a child a piece of candy - the Bible, the words and passages, rewards in her childhood.
Her mother had lain for some five years now inanimate and mute in that bed in the rest home. Perhaps if her mother hadn't deserted her and retreated into senility...perhaps she wouldn't have read those books - astrology, numerology, tarot, bio-rhythms - all those strange places she had searched for help as she shivered in the winds of change. But she had returned again and again to the Bible. She had searched the psalms, the phrases, the lines, but had found them wanting. She read, she searched, she pronounced, but the word would not live for her. She had lost her faith; then her children became her faith. The Biblical names she had bestowed on them annoyed Anderson, but she took comfort in them.
To the west she heard the whistle as the factory chimneys belched. She saw the pink clouds rise as the wind took them, like fragile kites, higher and higher. As waste, she was sure, but the rains would correct it.
A man in the street stopped, looked skyward like her angels, and inhaled deeply. In contrast, she put her hand over her mouth and nose. Holding her breath, she headed for the house. No, no, they would not trick her - she would not breath the winds of forgetfulness.
She needed to talk to someone - if only Rosa were here. She thought of her childhood friend, Beth, who had moved away months ago, and with the phone strike they had lost touch. And Anne had migrated. She remembered thinking how strange their choice was - Australia - but now she understood why completely. She looked at the silent phone in her hand - who could she call?
The crisis center - maybe they still existed. It was worth a try. She lifted the receiver. "Information, I need the number for a crisis center."
"Which one?"
"I don't know which one, any one."
"You dizzy bitch, you have to give me a name. I can't just go roaming up and down these pages. I ain't got ESP, you know!" The angry click of the phone startled her.
She found the yellow pages and was comforted to find at least ten numbers under "Crisis Intervention". She called the first number listed.
"Hello, my name is Amber Sue. How can I help you?"
Feeling embarrassed, Christine croaked a shy "Hello".
"Speak up, please, I can barely hear you. Would you turn on your visuals - it's nicer to talk face to face."
"I'd rather not," Christine said. "My problems are so personal I'd rather not face you." She kept her finger firmly on the off button.
"Okay, suit yourself, but please do begin. What's the problem?"
"I'm scared," Christine whispered.
"Aren't we all?" came the reply. "Go on, tell me all about it."
The words, once they started, tumbled out of Christine's mouth like a waterfall.
"I'm scared for my children - the world - you know. They're wonderful children. And the world is so bad today."
"Uh, huh."
"My husband doesn't understand my concerns - he says I worry too much.” She paused. “We do have plenty to eat and a nice safe house. We have two chemically enhanced dogs, barred windows, and we recently got an electric fence. But I still can't stop worrying..."
"Uh, huh."
"You see, I had a note given to me recently - well, not given exactly - left by my fence. It's a terrible note, threatening me and my children."
"Uh, huh."
"The note was repeated - they left it in my yard twice."
"Who left it?"
"I don't know - the street people - the ones that roam in our alley. They're violent, you know. They killed my daughter's cat and ate it."
"They must have been real hungry."
"Well, yes, I realize that. They seem to hate me, us - hate us. I'm not responsible for their plight. My husband's a good provider. I can't help that. About their hunger, I guess I never thought about it that way. It's the vicious thing they did after..."
The line buzzed.
"Uh, huh."
"They left the cat's tail and paws nailed to the window frame."
"Ouch - that is harsh."
"It's these constant threats, the underground press, everything. I want my husband and us to pick up and move to Australia."
"Australia! Why'd you wanna go to an uncivilized place like that?"
"I understand it's not - uncivilized, I mean. They have work, good housing, good schools. They even have religion."
"Religion? They still got that? See, lady, that's what I mean - uncivilized - dark ages almost."
"No, you're missing my point. It sounds safe."
"Hmmm, I detect something here. Were you raised in one of those kind of families - you know, God, church, hymns, that kinda bizarre stuff?"
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact I was."
"Are your parents still alive? This is a lot more serious offense than a misdemeanor, you know. They could be jailed for child abuse."
"No, they both passed away."
"Well I hope you're not teaching your kids that rubbish. God's dead, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"Have you thought about suicide? You know most of our calls are about that. We always recommend getting blind drunk first, then downers – take lots of downers. If you can't afford downers and you got a gas stove, that's not too bad. Get drunk as a skunk, put your head on the oven door – that’s a pretty comfortable way to check out."
"No, no, I wasn't thinking of killing myself. I have three children. I couldn't do that."
"Well, maybe a shrink then, with that abusive childhood you've had. Maybe he could clear your head. Or did you ever think to take up witchcraft - some of the local covens are real good. Nothing helps like feeling like you belong somewhere."
"I'll think about it."
"Have I helped? We need to tick mark the sheet. I'll get canned if my reports come up too negative. I need to get ten percent right or I'm out of here."
Crazy, everyone seemed to be crazy, Christine thought. Her silence prompted the phone worker to continue.
"I do have your number, lady. Shows up right on the screen. I do hope you're part of the ten percent that found the agency helpful?"
"Yes, of course, helpful." She swallowed. It was hard to say it. It struck in her throat, but finally came out. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Call any time. We're here to help, you know."
Suicide, how awful that now they encouraged suicide. But the word in her mind, in her heart, was uglier still. She needed to work, needed to touch the clay. The kiln was still there.
It was while kneading the clay - such a simple act - punching it, shaping it, firing it - that she found her hands shaping an altar. The lamb would be molded with its throat severed. It came to her and spoke from the dark recesses of the oven. It whispered, "Sacrifice".
She leaned in and looked into the darkness.
"Which one?" she whispered, knowing it would not answer.
The lamb and the altars - made in several different sizes, fired, glazed, finished - provided no answer. She stared at the secret, equine faces and began to feel the craziness cling to her like a cloak.
While cooking, cleaning the house or porch, watering the plants, feeding the dogs, listening to music, it would disappear like it had never been. But in the basement the kiln waited and its product on the shelf, dried, finished, alike yet different, stared at her; secret, silent, telling her in some unknown universal language that which she already knew. It grew like the elm tree - wild and unbidden - asked in th
e past to go away.
That day she did not hear them come home. Rachael came down the steps, stopped and looked at the various groups of lambs, and shrieked, "Mother, what are they? They're so ugly."
"Go away! Go upstairs!" she ordered.
"Oh, I get it," mocked her daughter. "It's something from your past - when you were a little girl - that religion stuff."
"Go upstairs!" she shouted. And her anger was so unaccustomed that Rachael obeyed.
Upstairs as Rachael brushed past her brother, she offered, “I think Mom’s nuts.”
The door shut and the basement resumed its quiet hypnotic state. She stared from one equine face to another. They seemed closed, not telling, a secret society. They knew she knew.
She opened the door of the kiln and stared into its blackness. First in a rational, perfectly normal voice, she asked, "Which one?" The concrete cave took her question and was still.
"Which one?" she repeated.
She felt the agony, for she knew no one would help her. She couldn't ask Anderson. He had not spent the time down here; he had not put his hands into the earth and molded it, felt the centuries of written pages instruct him. So how could he understand.
One more, hopeful, secretive, in a barely audible whisper, she asked, "Which one?" She listened in the stillness. In the distance a phonograph played, somewhere a ball bounced repeatedly, and a toilet flushed.
Later, at dinner, Rachael asked, "Did you guys know Mom's working again?"
"Why, no," Anderson replied looking at Christine. "That’s good. Do you need anything - clay, tools?"
"No," she said, hoping desperately that they would change the subject.
"Not really, I'm just messing around..."
"Lambs," Rachael interrupted loudly. "Seems like there’s hundreds of them there everywhere." She looked at her mother, seething. She was still angry at being sent away so rudely. She felt she had gotten even.
"Lambs?" Anderson said. "Lots of lambs?" and he held his hand out in the cupped way, as if holding something - the familiar gesture that Christine hated.
Unaware of the tension in the room and because he didn't half listen, for he was half stoned, Luke asked, "Where'd your class go today, Rachael? I saw the bus."
"Oh yeah," she said excitedly. "I almost forgot. We went to the projects today - social study class - and did we get lucky! There was this big protest going on - media everywhere. There was this big black gal running around the roof in her underwear - just her bra and pants. Fat - God she was fat! Screaming cuss words at the president about how he lied to her - how she had all those babies for nothing and the checks weren't coming. She was screaming her head off about how she wasn't gonna put up with it anymore."
Everyone at the table was quiet, even the silver hushed.
"Then," Rachael paused dramatically, "she picked them up - those babies of hers - picked them up by their ankles and tossed them off the roof one by one..." Her voice trailed off. "Squash! - you could hear it plain as day - sounded just like when you drop a big watermelon."
"Oh, we never get field trips like that," Matt complained.
Rachael jumped up, her dessert forgotten. "I might be on the seven o'clock news - I was waving real hard at the cameras." Excited, she left the room.
One by one they got up, but Christine still sat staring at the dishes. Her skin crawled. A mother killing her own babies and it had nothing to do with sacrifice.
Out of the window, she saw Anderson in the yard opening the paint cans. Still in his suit, he reached for a brush and lovingly began painting the tool shed again. A strange sight - this tall, well-groomed husband of hers, in his suit and tie, painting at least the fiftieth coat of paint that she knew of. Strange, this habit of his.
She walked out into the dusk and paused at his side. He continued to paint the wood siding. She looked down at the cans side by side - one white, one black. He noticed her gaze and stopped painting to look at her, his eyes excited.
"You know something, Christine, there is a very simple principle working in the world today that people never think about. Watch."
He dipped the brush into the black paint, moved it around, let several dribbles fall into the can of vivid white, and then stirred it vigorously with the stick.
"See..." he pointed as if it were the most important fact in the world. The swirls had turned the paint into an unpleasant grey. "Now take this can," - he pointed to the black. "I would need gallons and gallons of white to even change this color minutely."
She stared at the cans stupidly. What was the point?
"No one ever thinks about that," he said nodding as he picked up his brush and with even strokes began again painting the tool shed.
Chapter 14
It was nice having Rosa in the house. Her singing as she went about her work was a comforting sound.
And the muted laughter of the boys as they played seemed to dispel the quiet greyness of the large handsome house. Christine thought the house seemed lighter when they were there. She was grateful for the one day. Rosa was there. People in the house seemed to shoo her anxiety away.
Rosa was so conscientious that she rushed around trying to complete a week’s worth of work in one day. In the kitchen, the washer and dryer hummed. After each load was dry, Rosa meticulously folded the clothing and put it into neat stacks, and then ran up and down putting it away in the various rooms. Sometimes she mixed up the boys' clothing - Matthew and Luke were about the same size - but Mrs. Thorpe always told her it didn't matter.
The laundry basket was full of the cotton things she had sprinkled in preparation for ironing. She put the ironing board up and then took another load of clean clothes upstairs. When she returned to the kitchen, she found Christine seated at the table drinking a glass of tea.
"Sit down, Rosa. You're quite a whirlwind. If the laundry isn't done, I'll finish it. I actually like ironing - it's satisfying to see something all wrinkled come out smooth as glass."
Rosa nodded, poured herself a cup of tea, and sat down opposite Christine. Her legs throbbed from all the trips up and down the stairs, but this was good - only one day of hard work and then she had more time for her small sons.
Rosa knew she'd have to hurry the rest of the day to finish the ironing, but it wouldn't be right not to. It was her job and she wasn't like most people these days - shirking their duty.
Rosa swirled the sugar in her cup uneasily. She knew Mrs. Thorpe was worried about something. Dark circles framed her eyes and she could tell she probably wasn't sleeping well.
"Rosa, can I ask you something?"
"Of course, Mrs. Thorpe."
Christine smiled. "How many years has it been now. I've always told you to call me Christine, but you never do."
"I know," Rosa agreed, "we still friends no matter what I call you."
"I agree." Christine leaned her elbows on the table, made a tent of her fingers, and asked, "Rosa, imagine this." She paused. "If you had the ability to save four people out of five from dying - could you choose?"
"Choose?" Rosa repeated, not understanding at all where the conversation was going.
"Yes, choose," Christine repeated, but her eyes were wild and excited.
Rosa was silent for a moment before admitting, "I don't understand."
"No, I'm confusing you, for I’m saying this wrong. Because of the rules, that's not really the right choice. Think if it's two people out of three. That's it - now I'm saying it right. Two out of three."
Rosa stared down into her cup silently, her heart thudding nervously.
"Rosa, please, this is very important,” Christine coaxed. “Imagine you have three people and you love them all the same. You love them very, very much but only two will fit in the lifeboat. Think carefully, Rosa. Could you choose?"
She shook her head silently, not understanding all this talk of boats.
Almost hysterically, now Christine, frantic for an answer, continued. "In this situation, imaginary of course, if you're paralyzed and can't
choose, then eventually five people will perish - a slow, painful death. Do you see what I mean?"
"I sorry, Mrs. Thorpe, I no good at games. Jose and Juan, they good at games - like their father. He used to play cards; he understood games."
Christine sipped her tea and rethought her words. She would put it more simply.
"Please, Rosa," she pleaded, "just answer a simple yes or no. Rosa, if you had three children and you could only keep two of them, could you choose which ones?"
Rosa felt her legs trembling and a persistent nervous tic throbbed in her right cheek. She was very frightened. Finally she whispered, "No, I cannot make this choice only God can make!"
Christine stood up and paced the floor. "I always thought that, too, but it's wrong. Human beings choose all the time. The government decides with euthanasia who will die; the losing bidders at organ auctions have no choice, they die; murderers decide who will die; suicides have made choices..." She stopped her pacing and stood before the puzzled woman.
The pantry door creaked open and Juan came out timidly to stand by his mother. "Jose didn't look for me," he complained. "He won't play, Mama."
"It's all right. Sometimes he doesn't want to play," Rosa explained, all the while holding the child against her protectively. She felt so frightened, but maybe she misunderstood. Just then Jose came running into the kitchen. When he spied Mrs. Thorpe, he stopped and saw his brother being held close to his mother's side. Afraid of the strangeness of the scene, he went to her other side and she enclosed him in a protective way under her left arm.
Three pairs of warm brown eyes stared up at Christine, waiting. She looked at them, so united in their love for one another.
"Could you?" her final question.
Rosa finally understood what Mrs. Thorpe was asking. "No," Rosa answered loudly and harshly, "no, I could not!" Then, to break the spell, she ruffled her sons' hair and said lightly, "Run along, I've got lots of work to do. Run along now - the screen porch is a good place to play."
Reluctantly they pulled away from their mother and tiptoed out of the room.
Elias's Fence Page 11
