Cuento de Mi Id

“A Specter Is Haunting Gotham”

(I have written only three stories thus far that can be considered fanfic--four if you count this one. This is one of those stories. Of course, it can also be considered alternative history -- in a way.)

It moves through the urban darkness, a figure in white, so swift, so silent that any observer would think it either a hallucination or an illusion. But it is neither. You see, a specter is haunting Gotham.

A sound of movement stirs below. The figure in white pauses, crouching like a skeleton in the darkness. Then it leaps out into the night... out... and down... into the alley where three toughs in black jackets are accosting a young girl.

“Hey, baby, what are you doing out this time of night?” one of them says.

“Please,“ she says. “Please leave me alone. I’ll give you money.”

The thugs smile “Money isn’t what we want...”

“And we have no intention of leaving you alone...”

They do not notice him at first.

They have their minds set upon more important things.

Then...

“Hey, Billy,” one of them cries out. “Over there.”

The young hoods turn. Fingers snap. Three switchblades appear as if by magic.

“I don’t know what you’re doing in this neighborhood, mister, but you’d best scram.”

Beneath its white hood, the figure smiles. But from their point-of-view, it does not appear to hear. The muggers close in, expecting an easy target.

Then the figure moves. And three of Gotham City’s toughest find out what it means to be on the receiving end of a beating for a change.

When it is over, the figure in white walks over to the young woman. She stares at him, looking as terrified of him as she was of her would-be assailants.

“Who are you?” she asks.

If the figure’s features were discernible beneath its hood, one would almost detect a smile. But no reply is made. And the figure vanishes upwards into the darkness, leaving behind three battered corpses which were once men.

At dawn, the figure in white reaches a large mansion on the edge of town. Entering through the usual underground entrance, he is greeted by his faithful butler, Arthur.

“Rough night on the town, sir?” he mutters in a stiff, impeccable British manner.

He does not really expect an answer.

“Passable, Arthur,” says the figure. “Passable.”

He leaves him to enter the changing room where he doffs his nocturnal costume and prepares for the day ahead. As he showers and bathes, removing unwelcome traces of the night’s exertions, he contemplates the past which led him to his present nighttime activity. About his parents, long-dead, slain by unknown parties and how a youthful vow of vengeance against the murderers had led to a lifetime obsession with ridding the world of criminals.

It had been a long time since that night when he had first donned the white costume and gone out in search of evil-doers. And every night he feels older -- as if the cold wind of old age and its subsequent partner, death, were blowing down his spine.

He shivers unconsciously and wishes for the umpteenth time that he could see himself in a shaving mirror...

Cuento de Mi Id

“Skeleton Girl”

(Callie was one of the first female characters I invented. One of the dreams she had in this story was based on a dream I once had.)

Callie took her clothes off. Stood in front of the mirror. Her ribs looked like a xylophone. Her face like a skull. Her skin was white, too white, but there was a fever in her brain that seemed to compensate for it. Her arms looked like sticks, and she could see parts of her collarbone that she had never seen before.

But it was not enough.

She was still too fat.

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She got up the next morning. Ate an egg for breakfast. Only one egg, but she did it because only dumb girls starved themselves and she was not dumb. She took a quick shower. Afterward, she shivered as she put her clothes on and she never used to shiver. But she shrugged it off.

On the way to school, some radio preacher started talking about creationism and about how if evolution was in fact a reality we’d be seeing mutations all about us. She laughed and changed the station.

The radio started playing an old Robert Palmer song, and she sang along with it. Then it played a song about somebody’s imaginary lover, and then she suddenly stopped singing. Instead she changed the station.

She arrived at school, and her stomach started rumbling. She promised herself she wouldn’t break down and go to the school cafeteria. She didn’t.

Halfway through algebra class, her stomach started rumbling again. It was only ten o’clock, and lunch seemed so far away. She silently cursed the teacher for not letting her out early. Then she cursed the clock for not ticking faster. It was probably a few minutes slow, she told herself. She congratulated herself on her keen insight.

She was so hungry when lunchtime rolled around that she was tempted to buy out the whole cafeteria. But she didn’t. She brought an apple so she ate an apple. After all, if it was good enough for Eve...

She took her time eating the apple, but it still wasn’t enough. Her stomach craved something more. Down boy, she said. You’re just going to have to train yourself to do without.

School was over. Time for work. She punched in at three-thirty, and smiled at Billy. Billy didn’t smile back. Billy was talking to Karen again, and she didn’t like Karen.

She took her stand behind the cash register, and pretended to be interested in her job. She reminded herself that this job was one reason she was going to college in the first place. End up like the fifty-year-old employees you met at the store meeting a few months back? That would be a living hell. Even Billy seemed to sense it. And she was sure he would have told her so if only she had ever got up the nerve to speak to him.

But she didn’t get up the nerve. And she never will -- as long as she looked as she did. Once she lost more weight, things would be easier. Billy would be talking to her instead of Karen, and boys would be turning their heads in her direction when she walked through the mall, and girls would be envying her left and right.

But she wasn’t quite thin enough yet. Just a few more weeks...

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The weeks flew by. The pounds came off more slowly than they did a month ago. Perhaps it was the food she had been eating, she thought. Perhaps if she switched to a liquid diet...

She started having nightmares in which she raided the refrigerator and ended up going on a non-stop eating spree. The next morning, she woke up in a panic until she realized that it was all just a dream. She smiled with relief as she stepped on the scale and confirmed that she hadn’t gained weight. But then she hadn’t lost weight, either. This fact depressed her.

At the store, a customer asked her if she was sick, and she took it as a compliment.

She almost blacked out when she was putting up light bulbs, and she considered that a compliment as well.

Soon they would be envying her at the mall. Heads would turn as she walked by, and every guy there would be asking her for her phone number. Billy would be staring at her -- yes, her, not Karen or those other girls he used to go with before he met Karen -- and he would ask her out, and he would take her to a fine restaurant with white tablecloths and silver candlesticks, and then he would propose, and she would say yes, and then --

But then she woke up.

The dreams she had at night started to change in nature. She started dreaming about scarecrows and skeletons. She pictured a parade of ghouls in black, ragged clothing fetching something white from a river and feasting upon it. Then they tumbled the leftovers into the city reservoir. She did not know what this dream meant.

Her father confronted her one day at the breakfast table. He asked her to start eating more. You’re losing too much weight, he said. To lose so much weight so fast was bad for the heart.

She smiled and reassured him that she would eat more. Then she sneered at him behind his back, and asked why he didn’t worry so much about her when she was overweight. Could it be that her ability to lose weight so easily actually threatened him? Who could imagine a spineless wimp like her having so much willpower? Soon the heads would turn to look at her in the mall, and she would feast with Billy upon white tablecloths, and she would be able to eat anything she wanted, and Billy would look at her, not Karen, at her, not Karen, at her, not Karen, at her, not Karen...

Then one night she showed up for work, and Billy was not there. He had apparently quit, along with Karen.

The next day, Karen showed up, bragging about her engagement ring. If that was not bad enough, Callie heard rumors that Karen had already bragged about being pregnant. But that could not be, she thought. Not her and Billy. It had to be a mistake. It just had to be.

She found herself tempted to eat when she got home. She held off. No way was she going back to the days when she solved every problem by putting something in her stomach. But someone had already put something in Karen’s stomach. And now there was no going back.

The next day, Billy showed up. Karen was not with him. Callie pretended not to notice him. But she managed to be outside when he finally left, and she met him in the parking lot. She wanted to ask him if it was true. But she did not. She just stared at the concrete, and offered Billy congratulations. Then she smiled when he suggested he might come by the store again.

She knew she was not ever going to see him again. But for some reason, she thought she had scored a victory.

She drove home and thought about pigging out. Instead, she got a bottle of her mother’s sleeping pills. She took them out, one by one, Then she lined them up on the bathroom counter, one by one. Then she took them, one by one.

Thought you weren’t going to solve your problems by putting things in your stomach, she asked herself.

Shut up, she answered.

She started dreaming about white tablecloths and silver candlesticks and black, ragged clothing and heads turning at the mall and being able to eat anything she wanted...

When she woke up, the last thing she wanted to do was look at a mirror. She felt quite sure that she looked quite horrible. After all, she had come to hate that increasingly pale image she had seen in the glass for the last three months. But, in the end, she did not have to worry about it. She walked over to the bathroom to wash her face, and, lo and behold, she did not have a reflection in the mirror. Great. She was tired of looking at herself in the mirror anyway.

More importantly, she did not even feel hungry. The food in the family refrigerator no longer tempted her. Not even her mother's lasagna -- which used to be her favorite dish -- tempted her. In fact, her stomach turned just at the thought of eating such stuff. And yet she felt so thirsty.

A thought occurred to her. Something about a thing which was thin, and pale, and hated mirrors, and never ate ordinary food. But the thought did not stay with her for long.

She was already thinking about that thirst of hers. And what she could possibly find to satisfy it...

Cuento de Mi Id

“A Scream Within a Scream”

(It would be nice to pretend this tale was inspired by a recent Doctor Who episode but actually I wrote it back in 1991. I will admit that a certain Ray Bradbury short story inspired one part, but aside from that, I'm not saying...)

“Hey, Monica,” said Tad. “It looks just like you.”

Monica snapped out of her brief daze in time to respond to her husband. “It does not!”

“It does too," he said, pointing to the mummy. “Note the highly pronounced jaw structure. The full arch of the Castilian nose. The all-too-wide-and-yet-still-stylish hips -- ”

“That’s enough, wise guy,” she said. “I don’t go making fun of your ancestors.”

“That’s because I have no ancestors to make fun of,” he said. “I’m an orphan.”

“Gimme a break,” said Monica. She laughed. “This is supposed to be our honeymoon, remember? Not Anthropology 101.”

“I thought you wanted to see the Tombs of Guanajuato,” said Tad. “That’s why we came down here.”

“We came down here because staying at my Aunt Eva’s house was cheaper than Niagara Falls. Anyway, Guanajuato is a more romantic place any day of the week.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Tad. “Niagara Falls still has a little spice to it. And where can you find a decent waterfall in this place?”

“Gimme a break, you goofball,” Monica said.

She laughed again as the two of them left the tombs and re-entered the sunshine. Then she frowned.

“That mummy back there didn’t really look like me, did it?” she asked.

“Who ever said it was an 'it'?” said Tad. He did a quick John Hurt imitation. “I am not an animal. I…am a human being!”

“You’re something, all right,” Monica said. Tad laughed as she punched his shoulder.

“How about making for the Street of the Kiss?” she asked.

“I’ve got a better idea. How close is the nearest motel?”

*************************************************************************************************************

Monica lay back upon the bed and stared at the white ceiling. Moonlight flooded in through the tall, thin Spanish windows and she could see the pattern of their iron bars reflected upon the opposite wall.

This was much better than Niagara Falls would have been, she decided. Even if it did mean spending her honeymoon at her aunt’s house. And Tad had proved to be a more loving husband than she had ever thought he’d be.

Oh, he had been amusing enough when they were still single. But there had always been that nagging question about what their parents would think about a Mexican like her dating an Anglo like him and vice versa. Things like that were not supposed to matter anymore. But they did. And then there was that weight problem she had struggled with all through high school. God knows that did not exactly build up her self-confidence even after she got over it.

Yet, in the end, things had clicked for her and Tad. Tad Arian didn’t have to choose her -- yet he did. God knows he could have found a more attractive wife among all the women he had dated, but then maybe he had not been looking for a pretty spouse. Or maybe Monica had been just attractive enough to suit his needs.

It did not really matter, did it? Monica had won and the others had lost. Now she and Tad were here in Guanajuato, enjoying the afterglow of a beautiful session of lovemaking. Which had been another thing Monica had worried about. But why bother?

Monica had always had a bad habit of worrying too much about the wrong things. Half the disasters she had predicted never occurred. So why be so uptight?

She sighed and turned toward her sleeping husband. Funny how he always fell asleep so quickly. Must be a male trait.

She gently burrowed her way into his arms, taking care not to wake him. His bristly chest hairs felt deliciously rough against her own smooth skin. Playfully she explored them with her fingers. His skin felt so warm and smooth beneath her fingertips. Then she encountered a small, circular depression in his skin. A chest scar. A childhood reminder of chicken pox, no doubt.

Or else an early symptom of AIDS.

She froze. She felt her own face grow pale. She drew back from her husband, all the while trying to remember how many times they had made love. Many times. After all, it was the third night of their honeymoon. And they had used no protection.

Monica touched her own chest and screamed --

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-- only to find herself once more staring at a white ceiling.

She was in bed again in Aunt Eva‘s guest bedroom. The moon still shone in through the tall, thin Spanish windows, and she could still see the pattern of their iron bars reflected upon the opposite wall.

It had only been a dream, she realized. Yet it had seemed so real.

The oldest cliché in the world, she thought as she reached for Tad. And encountered in his place a noseless Guanajuatan mummy...

*************************************************************************************************************

She awoke with a start. The sun was shining. She and Tad were standing outside the entrance to the tombs.

“What’s the matter?” said Tad. “For a moment there, you looked kind of distant.”

“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I guess I was just daydreaming.”

“About yours truly, I suppose.”

“No, actually -- er, yes, you’re right.” She clutched his arm. “Let’s go back to the house.”

“But we just got here.”

“I know,” she said, nuzzling him in the chest. “That’s why I want to go back.”

“Women,” he said.

They started to walk back.

A thought occurred to Monica. “That mummy back there. It didn’t really look like me, did it?”

She waited for his inevitable comeback, but he merely shrugged and said,” You saw it yourself.”

“I know. And it didn’t look a thing like me.”

“Then why all the curiosity?”

“I don’t know,” said Monica. “I just have this strange feeling.”

“Comes from reading too many Ray Bradbury stories.”

“No, seriously,” she said, picking at his chest hairs. To her relief, his skin was unscarred. “I’ve been having the strangest daydreams.”

“You have?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. She looked him in the face. “I have.”

“Well, too bad you can’t go back there and check that mummy again. You’d have to pay all over again just to look at it again.”

“Yes, I know. But still -- you have no nose.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You have no nose,” she said.

It was true. He did have no nose.

“I didn’t notice it until now but you have no nose,” she said.

“Well, you know what they say about the size of a man‘s nose, hey, querida?” he said with a leer.

He reached for her.

Monica screamed...

*************************************************************************************************************

“Never seen you that excited before,” a voice in the darkness said.

She blinked. She was naked now. So was Tad, the man above her. They were both in Aunt Eva‘s guest bedroom again.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “ I must have blacked out.”

“Never had that effect on women before,” he said. “Must have been my new technique.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “It won’t happen again. It’s just that everything today has been like a dream.”

“It has, hasn’t it?”

She ignored the question. “And this is real,” she said. It was more a question than a statement.

“Indubitably,” he said, caressing her breasts. “By the way, you have the cutest little scar on your right breast.”

“Oh, no,” she said. Her hand flew up to check her breasts. It was true. There was a scar on her right breast. Just like the one she had seen on Tad in one of her dreams. But how --

“Had any chicken pox lately?” Tad asked.

Monica pushed him away --

*************************************************************************************************************

-- and found herself facing an open grave. They were burying someone here; she didn‘t know who. The sun had been obscured by clouds, and there was a young man in a black suit standing by her side. It wasn‘t Tad. He was way too young to be Tad. Yet he held her hand as if he knew her.

She turned to look into his face and saw that he had no nose.

Then she screamed --

*************************************************************************************************************

-- in ecstasy as her left hand found once more the secret spot that only she knew about. She did not want to do this. After all, she was a good Catholic girl. But it was dark and she was lonely and she was all alone in the room she shared with her sister Magda. Besides, Tad was out with another girl and it was either do this or eat like a pig. She did not want to eat like a pig. She had done so all throughout high school in order to escape her problems, and it had only made her problems worse. But she could not help it. It was one of the few things besides masturbation which relieved her loneliness and made it bearable. One of the few things that made up for all the times boys like Tad Arian had walked right by her without saying a word, only to fall all over a cheerleader or somebody else right down the hall.

But it was no good. The pleasure was fading. The fear was returning. She still wanted to eat -- not just little portions but whole banquets. Her hand withdrew from her underpants and she stared up at the ceiling --

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-- which was now gray sky. It was a gloomy day and she was looking out the window of her little private room, waiting for company. But no one -- not even her little grandniece Letitia -- had come to visit her today. No one ever saw her here at the nursing home, it seemed, save the head nurse and the nurse’s aides, and she wished quite dearly that it did not have to be that way.

If only she had married someone like her sister Magda and her brother Narciso did. Someone like that cute Tad Arian she had known back in college and high school. Then she would not have to die alone like this.

But Tad had had to drop out of college and marry that other girl he had been seeing. Monica never did find another man as kind and gentle as Tad, and now Tad was dead and she was alone and not even her own family came to visit her.

But wait.

Someone was entering her room now.

A tall man.

With no nose...

*************************************************************************************************************

She nearly fainted into Tad’s arms in the bright sunshine outside the entrance in the tombs.

“What’s the matter, honey?” he said. This time he had a nose.

Monica did not want to answer. By now, she was wise to the tricks reality was playing upon her. The only question was: “Why?” What had she done to deserve all this?

“I’m sorry, Tad,” she said -- and she sounded just like an actress in a play, she realized. “I guess I must have just fainted.”

“That’s all right,” said Tad -- and this time she watched his nose to make sure it did not disappear again. But it was staying put this time. She smiled. Back to reality, she thought.

She leaned forward and kissed him --

*************************************************************************************************************

-- and then someone slapped her face --

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-- then she kissed him again --

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-- then someone slapped her face again.

*************************************************************************************************************

She kissed him again.

And he murmured sweet nothings in her ear.

“That mummy back there didn’t really look like me, did it?” she asked.

“Why do you ask?”

*************************************************************************************************************

The slap came again. This time Monica opened her eyes. Her own mother was slapping her on the face. But why?

Her father was on the phone in the other room, an empty pill bottle in his hand. He appeared to be talking frantically to someone, but she really could not tell because she was so woozy and her brother Narciso kept holding her up and dragging her around the room.

“C’mon, sis,” he kept saying. “You can make it.”

Make what? She was so tired that she just wanted to sit down and rest, but every time she did so, Narciso pulled her to her feet again and started dragging her around the room. And every time she started to close her eyes, her mother would slap her on the face again.

Then she glanced again at her father and recognized the bottle he was holding. It looked just like the one that contained her sleeping pills. The same sleeping pills she had taken when she realized that Tad Arian was going to marry another girl. A girl he had already gotten pregnant. Her best friend, in fact.

“Tell them to hurry, Papa,” said Narciso. “She’s starting to slip back.”

That’s why they were doing all this. They were trying to revive her. But she did not want to be revived. Not if it meant spending the rest of her life without Tad. Not if it meant abandoning all the hopes and dreams she had had about their future life together. Not if --

Her mother slapped her again. But it did no good. She still felt woozy. Let me sleep, she wanted to tell them. Sleeping never hurt anyone...

*************************************************************************************************************

“Hey, Monica,“ said Tad. “It looks just like you.”

*************************************************************************************************************

Her mother slapped her face again.

Cuento de Mi Id

“After the Apocalypse”

(Obviously this is one of the most dated stories I have ever written and there is one image towards the end that makes no sense whatsoever. I do not remember how much of this story might have been based on a dream and how much of it was based on things I saw when I was visiting Michigan back in 1987. I will admit that I wrote the first draft while Ronald Reagan was still in office and I will also admit that the story was obviously meant to have a sequel. However, I have yet to write it. Maybe someday I will.)

Route 75 from Midland to Detroit is almost a straight shot once you get off Highway 10. There being no exits or detour signs to look out for, this route is perhaps the closest thing to a straight road in this twisty, curvy country. You enter Route 75 just north of Saginaw and you can take it all the way into downtown Detroit if you wish. But you best not.

The whole thing started on one of those bright summer days we’re not supposed to have up here in Michigan. The four of us -- Paul, Lee, Billy and myself -- had risen before dawn that morning in order to pack and we were already suppressing yawns by the time we finally got on the road.

Billy, the driver, had an in with the local camp commander who agreed to let us go down to Detroit on a “fact-finding mission” provided we return before dark. As it was summer and the trip normally took about four hours in either direction, we saw no problems.

Nevertheless, the guard at the city gate could not resist the opportunity to reinforce this point.

“Please get back here before sundown,” he said, stroking his gun with a smile. “We don’t want to have to come looking for you.”

The trip went okay until we hit Flint, the last major city on the route before Detroit. The authorities there insisted on taking the car in for inspection and since we were dependent upon them for approval of our travel permits, we really could not put up much of a fuss. Billy said that because of his National Guard background, the inspection was little more than a formality that would take at most an half-hour; he recommended that we all grab a delayed breakfast while we were waiting. I was not so confident -- I had seen troops being driven up and down Route 75 all my life and yet I was still not used to seeing them carry out civilian activities. However, I was content to trust Billy’s judgment.

That, of course, was a mistake.

The authorities shunted us over to the corner of a large reception area designed primarily for refugees awaiting the latest bus consignment. It seemed terribly gauche to put four of us rich kids there with a crowd of people who may never again see their homes or families, but Billy just shrugged when I mentioned this and muttered something about the infallibility of authority.

Paul smiled. Of the four of us, he had brought the smallest meal, a legacy from his anorexic days which had taken place at a time when self-starvation was still an abnormality and not yet a way of life. He ended up sharing part of his meal -- rather involuntarily, I noticed -- with a couple of refugees who had drifted up to our table. One of them was a young black man who kept inquiring about relatives in Saginaw. The other was a white girl interested in our chances of reaching Detroit. She said she had a sister in Taylor from whom she had not heard since the war began and there were rumors that the way to the city had been blocked.

A radio was blaring somewhere during all this and no one seemed to mind that it was on an all-oldies station. That was all that was left nowadays -- even the Top 40 stations had turned oldie due to lack of new material -- yet it seemed funny to be sitting there, listening to Barry McGuire’s “Eve of Destruction” just months after we had proved that this country could take the worst the Russians could dish out and still survive. However, when I pointed this out, one of the refugees just muttered something about it’s not being over till it’s over, which sounded suspiciously like a song quote.

It was at this time that an acne-scarred lieutenant came up to our table and asked Billy to come with him. There was no problem, he said. Just a little confusion concerning our travel permits.

Billy just smiled his old boyish smile and stood up. “This place,” he said. “They can’t do a thing without me.”

The lieutenant escorted him off to the main building and the three of us sat there waiting for his return. A WAC came by and asked us if we wanted a little something extra to go with our meal but we just shook our heads. There was no sense in becoming obliged to people when it was unnecessary and besides, it seemed vaguely obscene to offer aid to strangers who obviously needed no aid when so many around us looked as if they had not had a full meal for weeks.

It’s the old banking theory in action, I thought. Look as if you do not really need money and you are sure to get a loan; look as if you do not really need a date and your social life will be nonstop. The same principle apparently applied to emergency aid.

What a pity.

I pictured myself as one of those poor souls queued up for the next bus consignment and then I shuddered. At least we still had our own vehicle. It was not much, but it did permit us independence of travel and that was fast becoming a luxury in the post-war United States.

Another WAC came by our table.

“Staying with us long?” she asked.

“Only ‘til our permits come through,” we answered.

“Oh, you’re thinking of traveling?” she asked. “In what direction?”

“South! Towards Detroit.”

“Oh.” Something in her face died.

“Very well,” she said and then she left, leaving a trio of puzzled stares behind her. At least we were not being solicited to register as citizens, I thought.

I was wrong.

A couple of hours later, Billy finally made it back to our table, grinning and unaccompanied. “They’re rerouting all southbound traffic through Ann Arbor,” he said. “However, they did offer to let us register as citizens if we wish.”

“Billy,” I said. “That’s not our intention. I thought we were going to Detroit.”

“In time. In time. They’re still checking out the car for radiation damage. They should be through in an half-hour.”

“You said that two hours ago.”

“Well, this time they sounded sincere,” he said.

I frowned. There was something just a little too glib about Billy’s expression -- as if there was something he was not telling us. Paul felt it, too. I could tell by the way his shoulders were hunched.

“Very well,” I said, deciding to give Billy the benefit of a doubt. “We’ll wait.”

They came for Lee after lunch.

“Just a slight formality,” they said. “It’s required of all female travelers.”

The fact that they apparently did not consider me female rankled a bit but I consoled myself with the thought that perhaps I would be next. An half-hour later, I was not so sure.

“What’s taking Lee so long?” I asked.

“Health inspection,” replied Billy.

“What?”

“All women have to get them. Can’t have the next generation being born with two heads.”

“You sound like a bigot.”

Billy shrugged. “Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t.”

When Lee did not show up an half-hour after that, I began to get worried.

“Perhaps you should go check on her, Billy,” I said.

“Why?” he answered.

“It’s nearly two. We need to leave soon.”

“We can’t leave. The paperwork is still being processed.”

“We have to leave,” I said. “We have to be back in Midland by sundown.”

“That’s okay. They offered us residency here.”

“Here?”

“Sure. Along with free citizenship. No registration fee required.” Billy smiled. “I persuaded them of that.”

“But what about our travel permits?” I asked.

“I told you. They’re not done yet.”

“Why not? They’ve had all morning to work on them.”

Billy gestured at the crowd around us. “Busy place.”

“Busy place...” I started to repeat sarcastically when I caught sight of Paul’s gesture. He was looking at Billy’s face and he was gesturing for me to look at it as well. When I did, I noticed for the first time that although Billy was sitting on the side of the table facing the sun, he was not blinking.

“I think Billy’s right,” Paul said. “I think Lee will be okay.”

“You really think s -- ” I started to say. Then I shifted. “Oh, yeah. Sure. She’s in good hands.”

“I told you,” said Billy. His face seemed oddly smug in the summer sunlight. It reminded me of the way my old tomcat had looked after it had caught a mouse. Or worse, the way it had looked after it had been fixed.

“Right,” I said.

The three of us sat there, waiting for about twenty minutes.

Then I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room and Paul excused himself to go to the men’s room. We met behind one of the portable buildings next to the camps’ temporary apartments.

“Paul,” I said. “I think we need to discuss Billy.”

“Not here,” he answered.

“What?”

“Not here.”

We found an unoccupied apartment. The sign on the door said it had been assigned to us.

“Kismet,” said Paul.

“What?” I asked.

“Never mind.”

As we entered the room, I turned on the radio. I turned it up just loud enough to drown out the sound of our voices to outsiders but not to ourselves.

Paul looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“What if the room’s bugged?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just talk low.”

“Okay. What’s your conclusion?”

“Something happened to Billy. He’s not the same.”

“I know that. What about Lee?”

“I don’t know. I hesitate to think about it.”

“What about our travel permits?”

“I don’t think they’re going to give them to us. They’re planning on keeping us here.”

“Any reason why?”

“To separate us from the car, maybe. I saw no one being banned from the bus consignments. However, if we take that route...”

“Right...”

“There’s no telling where we’d end up.”

“And we’d be right where they want us,” I said.

“Which is where we are now,” Paul answered.

The two of us were silent for a long while.

“Any conclusions on your end?” Paul asked.

“Just two. One: we have to make a break for it before sundown.”

“And risk becoming outlaws?”

“If we don’t make it back to Midland by sundown, we’ll lose our citizenship there.”

“We have no guarantee that things won’t worsen there the same way they did here.”

“No, we don’t,” I said. “But it’s worth a chance.”

“Better the devil we know than the devil we don’t, huh?” Paul said.

My face reddened. “Not exactly. But at least conditions are still slightly better in Midland.”

“For now,” Paul said.

“Let’s not worry about that,” I said. “What about my second conclusion? Two: Something’s happened to Lee.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure but the way Billy talked... I’m not entirely confident she’s in good health.”

“Surely they would not hurt an innocent girl?” Paul asked.

“In the position we’re in right now, they could do anything,” I answered.

“Right.”

“What about your conclusions?” I asked.

“I have only two as well, “ Paul said.

“Let’s hear them.”

“Number one: I don’t think they’re going to let us go voluntarily.”

“Why not?”

“Too much at stake keeping us here.”

“For Chrissakes, we’re not the United Nations.”

“But we are potential contributors to the local community. But that is not the worst part.”

“Which is?”

“My second conclusion,” Paul said.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I said involuntarily, then silently cursed myself.

A black woman in a maid’s uniform came in. In her arms was an unconscious figure. She laid the figure on the room’s only bed. It was Lee.

“Lee,” I said after the maid had left.

“She’s unconscious,” said Paul.

“I can see that.”

I checked her pulse. It was still there. Her pupils did not seem to be dilated. They did not use drugs. So why was she unconscious?

“You shouldn’t display your nursing skills too much, Annie,” said Paul. “If they find out your true profession, we may never get out of here.”

“Shut up,” I said. “You just said we may have to break out.”

“True. If we plan to go south. The consignments will be going east, west and north.”

“I thought we already discussed that, Paul. You said yourself that we can’t trust the consignments.”

“Right,” he said. “Especially since the one for Midland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning.”

I glanced up at Paul. “You mean you checked?”

“Only in a casual way. But I have worse news than that.”

“About Billy?”

“No.” Paul turned toward the window. His voice was so low I could barely hear it over the radio.

I asked him to repeat himself. He turned.

“My second conclusion, Annie,” he said. “The reason all travelers are being kept from going south along this road. The Russians bombed Detroit.”