Agenda 21

by Glenn Beck

  The next thing I remembered was the Transport Team coming to take me home.

  The technician was helping me with my black widowhood scarf.

  “My baby?” I asked her. “Can I see my baby?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

  I didn’t think I was being ridiculous.

  “Where is my baby?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Where is my baby?”

  She didn’t answer again. I grabbed her shoulder. “Answer me!”

  Two men from the Transport Team grabbed my arms but I pulled away and whirled back at the technician, sobbing. “My baby. My baby.”

  She ignored my pleas. “Take this.” She handed me a pill and a glass of water.

  I threw the pill on the floor. She picked it up and handed it to me again.

  “Take this, now.” Her voice was firm.

  I took the pill. The glass of water was only half full, but it was generous compared to what we were usually allowed to drink. The Authority knew how much water the citizens needed to keep them hydrated and that’s exactly what we got. No more, no less.

  She nodded to the Transport Team. They took me by my arms again and started to walk me out of the building. My legs felt weak and trembly. “I want to see my baby!” I shouted over my shoulder. “Please!”

  “You’re stable. Your vital signs are good. We have no reason to keep you; you can rest in your own Living Space. And we’ll tend to the baby.”

  “But I have to see my baby.” I couldn’t stop crying.

  “Quiet, do what she says,” the man on my right whispered into my ear. He was a big man, muscular and tall. “Wait till we get outside.”

  It was still dark. Labor must have been quick. My belly still felt big but softer.

  “I knew your father,” he said when we got outside. “He was a good man. His farm was next to mine. I knew George, too. Whatever happened to them, whatever the Authorities told you, was wrong.” He was still whispering. “My name is John.”

  He helped me up into the bus-box. “Give me a minute here,” he said to the other men on the Transport Team. They stood, silent and still in their harnesses, and he turned back toward me. “I overheard the technician tell the Village staff that your baby passed initial functional testing,” he said, talking fast and low. “I saw her hand the baby to the Village worker. The baby was in a pink blanket. That’s all I know.”

  He got into his harness and the bus-box lurched forward. I was on my way back to our Living Space.

  The bus-box stopped at the gate. I stood up but felt a swirling sensation in my head. I had to hold on to the side of the bus-box to keep from falling. The wood was rough and splintered under my hand. John slipped out of his harness, ran to the step of the bus-box, and helped me down the step, holding me tightly around the waist. I could smell the leather of his harness on his shirt.

  The Gatekeeper stepped forward, frowning. “Stop right there,” he said. “Transport Team members aren’t permitted to enter the Compounds.” He put his hand on the top of a wooden club hanging from his belt as he spoke. The wood was smooth, shiny, and very dark.

  John didn’t release his arm from around my waist. He was bigger and taller than the Gatekeeper. “She doesn’t feel well. I’m just helping her. I’m Transport. Gatekeepers aren’t permitted to transport people. You know the rules.”

  The feeling in my head got worse. The fence, the flag, the buildings, the trees on the other side of the fence all swirled, twisting, fading. I felt myself slipping down.

  John picked me up. “I’ll carry her to her space. That’s transport, don’t you agree?”

  “What is your name?” the Gatekeeper asked.

  “My name is my name. I don’t need to give it to you. It’s one of the few things I have left.” His voice sounded foggy, far away but confident.

  He carried me to the door of our space. The Gatekeeper followed, a few steps behind us. John whispered in my ear; I had trouble hearing him but his breath was warm on my face. I think he said he would try to find out more about my baby. Or maybe that’s just what I wanted him to say.

  Mother stood at the door, her hands on her cheeks.

  “Emmie, let me help you.” She reached out for me. Then she looked at the man carrying me. “John, is that you?” she said.

  “Yes, it’s me. I’ve brought your girl home.”

  “Can you stand, now?” John asked me. I nodded, and he put me down.

  “Oh, Emmie, honey, are you all right?” I went to Mother, letting her wrap her arms around me like a safe blanket.

  “Far from the farms, aren’t we, Elsa? They transferred Joan and me from farm co-op supervisors. Assigned Joan to the Children’s Village and me to Transport.”

  The Gatekeeper edged closer.

  “Praise be to the Republic,” John said to my mother and made the finger circle on his forehead. He nodded briskly at the Gatekeeper and went back to the bus-box.

  * * *

  A pink blanket. The baby must have been a girl.

  I wanted to see her, as Mother had seen me for the first time. Pink and red and wet and slippery. Fingers, fingernails, toes, all small and perfect. Curled up, fitting into my arms. I wanted George to kiss me on my forehead.

  “I think I had a baby girl,” I told Mother.

  “Sweet Jesus,” she said. “Dear sweet Jesus.”

  Footsteps crunched outside our window—the Gatekeeper, taking down the red triangular banner.

  Mother and I curled up together on her sleeping mat. We were all that was left of real family. The room felt empty. Something was missing.

  I wish I had held Mother even more tightly than I did that night. I didn’t know at the time that she was about to be taken from me as well.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After Mother was taken away, just Jeremy and I were left. We settled into a sullen relationship. Nothing like the way George and I had been with each other. I tried asking him questions, to find out more information, to learn all the things that everyone had kept from me.

  “What was it like, growing up in the Children’s Village?”

  “I guess it was okay. Better than here,” he said.

  “What did you learn?”

  “Stuff,” he said.

  “How old are you?”

  “What’s it to you?” He wiped his nose on his forearm, childlike.

  And so it went. Questions. Short answers. “What do you do at Re-Cy?”

  “Sweep the floor. Burn stuff. That’s it.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Stuff.”

  He never asked me anything. Nor had we ever paired. I was still bleeding from having the baby and he had made no effort to touch me. His mat was against one wall, mine against the other, and the arrangement suited us both. I couldn’t bear the thought of him pairing with me. I wouldn’t let that happen. Republic be damned.

  Every day was spent walking, creating energy. At the end of the day, I was hot and tired, and my muscles burned. My thighs were getting bigger and more defined.

  Father used to tease Mother about her legs. “Nothing better than a woman with thighs,” he used to say, and they would both laugh. It’s been so long since I’ve heard anyone laugh.

  I’d never felt so tired. Mother was gone, and her absence left a big hole in our Living Space. I wished I could step into that hole and disappear as she had. The only thing of hers still with me was her sleeping mat. It was hard and lumpy but I wanted to spend all day, every day, lying on it, smelling her, and pretending she was still here. That’s all it was. Pretending. But that’s all I had.

  Falling asleep and staying asleep grew difficult. Often I would wake before sunrise. I started dragging Mother’s sleeping mat near the doorway and would sit on it, looking out, watching the stars fade, waiting for the sun to rise. The stars were a mystery to me, scattered across the sky. The way they sparkled some nights more than others. The way they faded away when dawn came. Where do they go? I would
cry, too. Missing Mother, missing Father, missing George. And missing my baby. How you can miss something that you never really had? I finally understood how much Mother missed what she once had, what was taken away from her. I wished I had understood this kind of grief better, when it still would have counted. Too late, now. That’s what brought the tears—understanding doesn’t matter when it comes too late.

  From my doorway I saw the dusk-shift Gatekeeper making his rounds, delivering the breakfast cubes. They gave us cubes in the morning to fuel us up, so to speak, for a full day of producing energy. We had to earn our evening nourishment. The Gatekeeper put the breakfast cubes and water rations in the nourishment box outside each doorway. I watched him from the shadow of my doorway as he walked the perimeter, bending at each Living Space, lifting the box lid, putting in the cubes, moving on. The metal lids on the boxes creaked and screeched. The stars had almost faded. Streaks of gray light appeared beyond the fence, above the trees.

  He came closer. He was taller than the day-shift Gatekeeper. I couldn’t quite see his face. He bent and opened our box. The screech hurt my ears.

  “Good morning,” he whispered.

  “Oh!” I didn’t have my headscarf on. My hands flew to my neck for it, but it wasn’t there. “Good morning. I didn’t think you could see me.”

  “The little bit of light through the window slit. That’s how I saw you. Praise be to the Republic.”

  “Praise be to the Republic.” We both made the circle sign.

  I watched him as he walked away. I watched the way he walked, strong strides, arms swinging only slightly but with rhythm, head up, alert, back straight, shoulders wide.

  And then it was morning.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  One morning, as I pulled Mother’s mat across the concrete floor to the door, I heard a ripping sound. I turned it over to see how much damage I had done.

  There was a small tear in the gray fabric. In the dim dawn light I could see something white inside the tear. Something that looked as though it did not belong. I put one finger into the void. Whatever it was felt smooth, like paper, which was odd since we hadn’t been allowed paper for a long, long time.

  The day the paper was taken was still vivid in my mind. I think I was about seven. Mother had taught me to read, but we didn’t have many books. Huckleberry Finn, I think, and Little House on the Prairie, and my favorite, The Little Prince. I couldn’t picture the worlds in Huckleberry Finn or Little House, but the pictures in The Little Prince were as barren as our Compound. We had a few schoolbooks too, early readers, and a children’s picture dictionary. Mother went over the books, word by word, teaching me to read.

  Central Authority sent workers to each Living Space. Mother had stood beside her energy board, arms crossed over her chest. “As was announced at the Social Update Meeting, we are authorized to remove all paper products including, but not limited to, books, photographs, maps, and letters.” That’s what the worker said. He had a mustache, but it was a mousy kind of mustache. Thin, brown, and wispy. He didn’t look important.

  “I heard the announcement,” Mother said. “But I don’t suppose you can help me understand the reason, can you?”

  “The reasons were announced. Paper is to be recycled. There is no need for private ownership of paper. All communications will come directly from the Central Authority to the Citizens.” He was frowning and tapping his fingers on the sidebars of my board. “You were to have all your papers gathered together and ready for pickup.”

  She turned her back on him. “I put all I had on the counter. Take it and leave.”

  “And you verify that is everything.”

  “I verify.”

  “But you can’t take what is in my head,” she muttered when he was out of earshot.

  So the few books we had were taken. I was sad because I liked the feel of them. Hardbacks, some with pictures, and the pages marching forward, numbered. The paper, smooth between my fingers. The musty smell. But most of all, I liked sitting next to Mother, her arm around me as she read. The smell of the books, the smell of Mother. Sun through the window slit.

  After they left with our books and little packet of paper, mostly old letters from friends long ago, Mother got right back on her energy board.

  “Get on,” she said to me. “Some things you have to do. The things that are monitored. So get on your board. Start walking.” She walked heavily, stamping her feet against her board with anger. “But not everything can be monitored. Free will can’t.” She stopped talking.

  * * *

  That’s what I remembered. And now, early morning, the next day, with Jeremy sleeping, I found paper in Mother’s sleeping mat. I wanted to pull it out immediately, touch it, smell it, read it. But the light was dim and Jeremy would be awake soon. I sat in the doorway waiting for full dawn, my arms around Mother’s sleeping mat. It was good to have something to hug.

  The Gatekeeper started his morning rounds, bringing breakfast. I watched him step, bend, deposit, straighten up, step, bend, deposit. The wooden club on his belt swung forward each time he bent over.

  He arrived at my doorway.

  “Good morning,” he whispered.

  “Good morning,” I answered. Should I have put on my headscarf? That was twice now, and he could report me for sitting in the doorway without my headscarf. I needed to be more careful, but it was so hard to be careful when you were tired, missing Mother and Father, having a child you had never seen, and living with the smell and sullenness of Jeremy.

  “An egg, tomorrow,” he said, and moved on. Odd. We hadn’t had eggs for a long, long time. I pulled Mother’s sleeping mat inside and put it against the wall, torn side down.

  After Jeremy ate his breakfast cube, he left for Re-Cy on his energy bicycle. He didn’t talk much. He never smiled. He was so different from Mother and Father and George. So different from me, too. I never would have picked him as a partner. But, of course, those were not my decisions to make.

  I wanted so badly to pry open Mother’s sleeping mat again but instead I decided to get started on my board, move that needle, move it as quickly as I could, so no one would be suspicious.

  What was it Mother had said? If it’s monitored, you have to do it.

  And so I walked. And walked. And with every step I took, I thought of what might be on the paper in Mother’s sleeping mat. My mind ran wild with possibilities. It must have been something important for her to take the risk to save it.

  When my needle was a little past halfway, my legs were burning hot and heavy and I needed a break. A little breeze came through the window slit and the open doorway. I could smell the trees and grass on the other side of the fence. A rich green smell, living and clean. The smell Father said he missed.

  I turned off my board and glanced out the door. The day-shift Gatekeeper was at his station by the gate and there was no reason for him to be making rounds. Not at this time of day. The bus-box was at the gate; I didn’t wait to see if they were taking someone away. Wouldn’t make any difference anyway. Nothing to be done when they come for you.

  I quietly closed the door and then pulled Mother’s mat into a corner where it would be hard for anyone walking past the doorway to see me. I sat on the floor with it across my lap. There it was, the little tear with white showing through.

  It was too small for me to pull the paper through so I tore it a little larger. Then a little larger. I saw a word. KODACHROME. I didn’t know what that was. The paper was still too big to pull out.

  One more tear. It was very quiet outside except for some birdsong.

  I slid the paper out carefully, slowly, and turned it over.

  A picture on shiny paper, in color. A little girl in a pink dress, white shoes, and white socks with ruffles around the top. A lady holding her and smiling at her. They were standing outside of a big house with big windows. The little girl grinning at the lady. She had one hand in her mouth and the other hand on the lady’s cheek.

  The lady was Mother.
Her skin was smooth, without scars or blotches.

  The little girl must be me.

  I put my hand inside the torn mat. I felt more papers, but I could tell from the sun through the window slit that I didn’t have much time left to get my needle to finish. I had to get back on the board. I had to do what they can monitor.

  I slid the picture back into the mat, flipped the mat torn-side-down, and smoothed the wrinkles off the cover. She had saved that picture for me. Now it was almost like she was here with me. Like we were in this together.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  That night it was as though the Kodachrome had come alive. In my dream the little girl kept patting Mother’s cheek. And Mother kept smiling and nuzzling her face against the little girl. Against me. And then Mother put me down on the grass and I took a couple of steps, then toddled with my arms out to my sides. Then I tumbled down and pulled up a handful of grass and tried to put it in my mouth.

  Just as Father had told me I had done.

  I didn’t wake before dawn this time. My sleep was good and deep and peaceful. I woke when Jeremy did. Our breakfast cubes and water were already in our box, along with two beautiful hard-boiled eggs in their shells and two packets of salt.

  “Look,” I said. “Eggs.”

  “Who cares?” he said. “In the Children’s Village the food was better.”

  “Jeremy, the food is the same everywhere. You know that.”

  “Yeah, but I liked it better there. I didn’t have to go to work.”

  “Here you have to. And we’re lucky to have eggs.”

  “What’s lucky about stupid old eggs? I hate it here. I hate the energy bicycle. I hate going to work every day. I want to go back to the Village.” He looked like he was going to cry. Who thought this boy was ready for work and reproduction? He was just that. A boy. Skinny, unable to carry on a conversation, exhausted from the energy bicycle and Re-Cy work. As much as I disliked him, I felt sorry for him.