Where We Are, page 13
I’m not so good at laundry.
I used to be—I think, anyway—but it’s hard to wash so many clothes. Hard to get them clean, hard to rinse them. Hard to hoist them over the clotheslines. They weigh so much. And I’m so tired. I’m so weak. There’s so much water. It drips down, it trickles down. Then they tell me the robes are still dirty, still damp, and they haul me out and down to the Room of Reflection in front of everyone. Infraction. Infractions cost points.
My hands are cracked and bleeding. Sometimes I put my fingers in my mouth to keep them warm and stop them from bleeding, even for a few minutes.
How would he do it? Deeson, probably. The prft wouldn’t want to get his hands dirty in the actual doing of the deed. He’s shut me down as much as he can: banishment to the laundry room, confiscation of pencil, decree of non-verbality unless he’s asking me a direct question. Forced fasting. Which is something I haven’t told you about, Sesame. Or wait, have I? Starvation. Nothing’s worked so far. I mean, starvation’s working, but maybe it’s too slow for them. Time to bring in the big guns, which here in the belowground means Deeson. He’s the only one with the balls to do it. Whatever the prft decrees, Deeson’s on it. Would be on it. Would have been on it. Will be on it. See what I did there? Conjugation. It’s a useful tool.
It’s dark down here. Maybe he’ll wait until everyone else is sleeping, then sneak into the laundry room, find me in the corner, and press a pillow over my face until I’m dead. Maybe he’ll strangle me with his belt. Maybe he’ll stab me with a kitchen knife.
There’s any number of ways to kill a person.
Maybe, once my lifeless body is found, Deeson will get a reward. Maybe the prft will let him wear the headlamp for an hour a day. Maybe he’ll get extra prayers. Maybe he’ll get extra rations. That’s what the prft calls them now: rations.
And everyone just goes along with it. The prft calls food “rations,” so everyone else does too. The prft decrees that only bare overhead bulbs are allowed, no one complains. The prft glares his headlamp into the face of anyone he looks at now—not just me anymore—and no one does anything but blink and squint and try not to flinch.
Why? Because no one will call him out.
Why not? Because everyone is afraid.
What are they afraid of? The rage of the prft.
So everyone walks on eggshells. It’s a minefield of broken eggs down here, Sesame. What’s it like up there? Has winter turned to spring yet? How are Prince and Peabop? How are the Jameses? Are you reading in the recliner? Are the poem boxes full of poems? Has anyone found your house? Has anyone figured you out? Is it day or night out right now? I send you these thoughts from a place where the days are growing shorter. The light is dwindling, Sesame.
16 Sesame
INKY AND SEBASTIAN and I meet in the conference room, because the library is open again after being closed for Christmas Day. It’s not even decorated, nor was it ever, maybe because of freedom from religion? This is a relief, because Christmas trees and Christmas lights and Christmas music have been everywhere else I go, and all the happiness and excitement just make Micah’s absence worse.
I didn’t want to put up a tiny tree in my house, even though I usually do in honor of my grandmother, but I didn’t not want to either. It felt wrong to decorate for Christmas with Micah gone—like, there should be no celebrations until he’s back—but it also felt wrong not to. I mean, I do have a present for him. The stack of notes and poems on the table gets bigger every day. I compromised by draping a string of twinkle lights around the poems table and Micah’s present.
Inky and Sebastian both come from big Christmas-celebrating families. They each invited me to their house for the day yesterday, but I said no. Precious daylight hours needed to be spent searching, even on Christmas.
“Ses, I thought of something,” Inky says now. “Have you checked his OverDrive library account? Because maybe he’s—” I shake my head. Yes, I checked, the day after he disappeared and every day since. Nothing.
“Fuck.”
She’s pissed. Not at me, not at Micah, but at the fact that the one barely possible explanation anyone’s had—that somehow Micah’s parents did just up and haul him on a camping trip, and he’s somehow borrowing library books on his audio account—was so quickly shot down.
“I put up more flyers,” I say, ticking things off on my fingers. “The white passenger van count is up to twelve, but none are cult vans. The abandoned building count is up to fifteen, but they all seem truly abandoned. I call Officer Emmanuel daily just to stay on her radar. The Jameses take turns calling all the hospitals. Prince and Peabop and I have tripled our walks.”
The Jameses are okay with this. The dogs and I go out early. After an hour we’re too cold, so I take them into a dog-friendly place until we’re warm again and then back out we go for another hour. We repeat this one more time before the sun goes down, which it does around four forty-five, and that’s it for the day.
“How do you know they’re searching?” Sebastian says. “Do they look any different from the way they do on a regular walk?”
“Yes,” I say. “They’re more businesslike.”
Inky sucks in a deep breath and frowns, and I tense.
“Ses,” she says, then hesitates. Looks at Sebastian. They’re communicating something to each other.
“What?” I say. “Spit it out.”
“Ses,” Inky says again, “I’m sorry, but Sebastian and I have to bring something up again. Which is, could the Stones actually be where they say they are? Down south on a tech-free camping trip? Is that at all a possibility?”
She’s talking fast, her eyes down. When she’s done, she glances up, a look of fear in her eyes. Is Inky afraid of me? Afraid of what I’ll say?
“What the hell, Inky,” I say, and I look over at Sebastian. He’s got the same look on his face. Have they been talking about me? Wondering if I’ve lost it? If I actually made this whole thing up? I imagine it, the two of them texting while I’m out walking the dogs and searching. Late-night conversations when they’re both off work and at home. Speculating that maybe the Stones are for real, that the note they sent to school is legit, that the reason the police aren’t paying any attention to my missing person report is because Micah’s not actually missing.
“No,” I say. “It’s not a possibility.”
“Okay,” Sebastian says hastily, and “All right,” Inky says. They’re acting like they don’t want to make me angry. Like they’re scared of me. Can that be right?
“What’s going on here?” I say. “Are you two scared of me?”
Sebastian clears his throat. “Not scared of you,” he says. “Maybe scared a little bit for you.”
“We’re not as sure of the situation as you are,” Inky says carefully, like she’s clarifying. “When you look at it objectively, it does seem possible that everything in the note Mr. and Mrs. Stone sent to Southwest is actually true. Like maybe they are just on a tech-free camping trip.”
I say nothing. My heart is pounding. Inky and Sebastian are my best friends. And my best friends don’t believe me. Or they’re starting not to believe me. Sebastian picks up where Inky leaves off.
“Plus, Ses, the police see hundreds of missing person reports every month, right?” he says. “They have experience with this kind of thing. And they’re not even a little bit concerned.”
I still haven’t said anything. Neither of them can tell that my heart is racing and I feel like puking—they don’t believe me! They don’t think Micah’s in danger!—and then Inky says something that hits me right in the gut.
“Ses, I hate to say this, but when you look at the bigger picture, you’re pretty mysterious yourself.”
Sebastian nods—they have been talking about me—and starts talking. “Number one, Inky and I have never even met your aunt. We barely even met your grandmother! Number two, your aunt’s still in California taking care of a sick friend?”
“Which, number three, means you’re totally alone right now,” Inky says. “And you were alone on Christmas.”
“But you wouldn’t come over to either of our houses,” Sebastian says. “That’s just… awful.”
“And weird,” Inky says. “And the last thing? We don’t even know where you live. That’s not right.”
They’re piling on and I feel dizzy. It’s hard to breathe. My two best friends are looking at me with suspicion, and I suddenly want my grandmother so bad I can’t breathe. Can’t think. No, what I want is Micah. Micah knows everything about me. When I’m with Micah, I’m not hiding anything. I pick up my backpack and sling it over my shoulders. Inky jumps up and comes around to me.
“Ses, please don’t go. We’re worried about you.”
“I don’t have time for this shit,” I say, and I blow out of the conference room. Our conference room.
It’s hard to breathe, hard to think—they’re my best friends—but I keep moving. I go straight to the Jameses and pick up the dogs. Out we go, tromping the alleys with the staple gun and extra flyers. I restaple flyers that are coming loose, put up new ones, load up the poem boxes with Micah’s smiling face. More notes have appeared.
I’m sorry about your friend. This is a hard time of year to be missing someone.
We will be on the lookout. I lit a candle for him last night.
Thank you for the poems and sorry about your missing friend. I would say Merry Christmas but that doesn’t seem right, so I will just say keep the faith.
Have not seen this boy but I’m keeping my eyes open.
These note-writing strangers are kinder than Sebastian and Inky. That’s not true, Sesame. It feels true right now, though. What’s worse is knowing that they doubt he’s in danger. Is he in danger, Sesame? Yes. He’s in danger, because if Micah wasn’t in danger, he’d be with me. That is 100 percent clear. It’s been fourteen days now, and fourteen days is a long time. Stapling up flyers and leaving them in the poem boxes feels like a stupid thing to do in the face of…
What if he never comes back?
No, don’t think like that. Don’t even let that thought into your brain. Then they’ve won.
Three little phones lined up by the toaster.
I’m trying not to panic.
Think of something good, Sesame. Think of a good person. Good people. People like Brian and Chee, my former neighbors who moved to China last summer. They used to live down the block in the six-plex. One day I was walking home down the alley and it was like an entire apartment had been dragged out to the garbage: a dining table, a desk and chair, a laundry drying rack, a bookcase with all the books still in it, a small Persian rug, and the recliner. It’s real leather, dyed dark red. I sat right down in it. Everything was set up like it was a living room, right out there in the sunshine, late on a Tuesday afternoon. I leaned back and popped out the recliner footrest and closed my eyes, like I was some business executive from the 1950s, home from another cutthroat day and ready for a drink.
“You want that recliner? You can have it.”
I opened my eyes. Two guys were standing by the garbage cans, looking at me. They looked happy to see me sitting in their recliner, as though they had needed a girl to complete their domestic scene and suddenly, there I was.
“We’re moving,” the tall guy said. “Like, tomorrow.”
“To China,” the short guy said. “So we have to get rid of all our stuff. We got married last week and we’re moving to Beijing tomorrow,” he added, and the tall guy put his arm around the other guy’s shoulder and beamed. That’s the only word for it. The sunlight of their happiness glowed out from them and fell on me, and I wanted to ask them if I could move to China with them, because then the warmth of their happiness would spill onto me and I would be happy too. That’s how it felt, being in their presence. That’s the kind of person you have to think of when you’re trying to keep going. The kind of people who give off warmth.
“I’d love this recliner,” I said.
“It’s custom-dyed,” the tall one said, and he held out his hand to me. “I’m Chee.”
“I’m Brian,” the short one said. “Where do you live? Can we help you move it?”
They were the nicest guys. In my memory, they will always be the nicest guys in the world. Brian and Chee. Where are they now? I sometimes wonder. Late at night, when I’m reading in my custom-dyed dark red recliner, I wonder. I hope they’re still in China, eating noodle soup and dumplings, speaking Chinese, holding hands and laughing.
“I’ll get my boyfriend to help me later,” I said. “He’s got a truck.”
They looked at each other and nodded approvingly, like, of course this girl has a boyfriend with a truck. They liked me instantly and vice versa. It was one of those things.
“I wish you weren’t moving to China,” I said, and they made faces and tilted their heads and kept nodding, like, We wish we weren’t moving to China either, now that we just met you and it’s the start of a beautiful friendship.
That was the last time I saw Brian and Chee. Late that night, when the city was dark and quiet, I snuck up the alley and spread a big piece of plastic in front of the recliner where Brian and Chee had dragged it behind the garage so no one else would take it. They had covered it with the rug because I wanted that, too. Then I tipped the recliner onto the plastic—it was thick and heavy plastic, the kind professional painters use—and I dragged the whole thing down the alley.
I’m thinking about the recliner now, as I try not to think about Sebastian and Inky. As I staple up flyers and collect notes and poems for Micah and scan the alleys and curbs for white vans and abandoned buildings and footprints across pristine snowy parking lots.
That recliner was heavy. It was the kind of thing that most people wouldn’t think of moving alone. It was hard to move and it took a while. But you know what? I made it.
Screw you, everyone who doesn’t believe that Micah’s in trouble.
Onward.
17 Micah
MY PARENTS ARE shorn. Deeson cut their hair. He’s cut everyone’s hair except his own and the prft’s. And mine. They must be saving me for something special.
I didn’t see Deeson cut my parents’ hair, but I wish I had. Because then I wouldn’t have these mind images to contend with. Like my mom with the tarp draped over her, the scissors in Deeson’s hands. All her long brown hair drifting in clouds to the floor. And then the razor. Her eyes, blinking like a baby bird’s. Her head like a chemo patient’s head but no scarf and no hat to keep her skull warm. Deeson and his smirk.
Deeson told me they’re talking about a purification ceremony for me now. The prft wants a ritual cleansing. Back in the day, the word “cleanse” meant to clean. To get the dirt out. It must have been a good word back then, untainted and straightforward. Now it’s a dark word. Stained. Like think about what the phrase ethnic cleansing really means.
The laundry room smells. Like laundry, and detergent, and dampness, and also like a toilet, because it is. They don’t let me out anymore, so I can’t empty my toilet bucket.
The last time they did let me out was to see their new ritual: duct-taping the items on the Refuse from the Secular World table. Around and around and around my pencil the prft wound the roll of tape, while Deeson the acolyte held it steady. Deeson who stands at the right hand of the prft, ready to carry out his every bidding. Then they laid the duct-taped pencil down in state on the table, along with the condom and the pink hairbrush and a grocery list and the debit card, all of which they also duct-taped. So they’re unrecognizable, I guess.
Sesame. Sesame. Can you hear me rambling on and on and on? Are any of my thoughts getting through to you?
Sesame, it’s harder than I thought it would be, down here. I don’t see my parents much. Lie. I don’t see my parents ever anymore. Wheresoever the sin was committed, there shall the sinner reside. Did my parents commit a sin? Are they residing where their sin was committed? I don’t know. The daynights have all run together, and when was the last time I actually talked to them? Deeson the anointed was the bearer of the sin news, announced that during prayers after the ritual duct-taping of the pencil. He stood next to the prft and he read from a card that the prft handed him. He had to hold it as far away from himself as he could, the way that middle-aged people do. Guy must be too vain to wear reading glasses. Unless reading glasses are also forbidden. Part of the refuse from the secular world.
Maybe it’s good I can’t see my parents. I used to feel sad and worried for them, but I don’t anymore. Now all I feel is angry. Aren’t they supposed to take care of me and not the other way around? How did everything get so messed up?
* * *
All my points are gone. The prft and Deeson are talking about the Court of Ascendance Law. They’re talking about eden and being cast out of it. I don’t know what that means. What happens now is beyond my control and probably beyond my parents’ control, even though my parents are so much older than me. They’ve lived through a lot more years than me and a lot of things that I don’t even know about because I wasn’t born yet. Did they have a defining moment somewhere along the way that made them strangely susceptible to the prft? In some ways, I hope so. Because if the answer is no, then it means that what happened to them could happen to anyone.
* * *
In my corner of the laundry room I’m looking through a mental telescope at human history, and what I’m seeing is some human beings trying to hold back other humans every step of the way. There’s no end to it. It happens everywhere. Everywhere in the world are cement-block laundry rooms, and in the corner of every one of them is a huddled-up human wondering where the light went.
Be vigilant, my child. Protect yourself.
