Elias's Fence Read online

  "Yeah, Big Deal," Rachael snapped.

  Christine swiveled in her seat. "No fighting please.”

  But it was Rachael who finally cried, “Stop – Daddy, please stop!”

  He pulled off the road. She opened the door and stumbled up the hill, retching and holding her stomach. It was the fresh air. It had cleared her head, and she could not imagine the person who could have planned such a tasteless joke. With a sense of dread and terror she realized it was she who had planned and executed it.

  Christine continued scolding the children, “Grandma's just died. Have some respect."

  "I was just remembering her," Matt lied.

  "That's sweet, honey," and she reached back and ruffled Matt's hair affectionately. She hadn't realized how much the children had loved their grandmother. Her second thought was that with the nursing home bills stopped, there'd be more money for the tickets. Anderson also thought about how the relief from the financial burden of her mother would set Christine's mind spinning, planning, counting.

  He was right. She spent the next day in the vault counting, figuring, planning, and trying to forget about her mistake. If she hadn't insisted on the fence, they would almost have had enough.

  The fence. How often she thought about it now, but in a different way. Now she was afraid of it. Before she thought of it as safety, protection; now it was the opposite and she felt it imprisoned her. As crazy as it sounded, she felt it was pure evil. Now the area of barren ground around it covered almost three feet. Anderson had accused her of not tending properly to the garden, but that wasn't true. She gave it every care she could think of, but the blight kept spreading; it was commonplace to find creatures and insects of every sort dead among the clods of earth.

  It was too late to worry about the mistake of the fence now. She had read in the underground press and heard people talking on the news about the rumor, thick and pregnant with innuendo, that all the airlines were being sold. At first she hadn't believed it, but then that Sunday she pretended she wanted a Sunday drive and insisted that Anderson take her by the airport. And she saw all the closed windows. GWA was gone; World Wide was closed; only two airlines still operated planes - the few that were left. All of the passengers were leaving; none were arriving. It was true - there was little time left. She would try again to tell Anderson - ask him - plead with him for help. The underground papers said the last flight from America to Australia would be June 15. It was the last flight!

  Later that night, Anderson sat on the couch with the paper folded carefully on his lap while, with rapt attention, he listened to the news. The broadcast began as it always did - Day 2032 for the hostages in Turkey. The President was sending an envoy to try to obtain their release again. The new segregation laws were being pressed harder, with states being forced to participate to create racial balance. Automobile strikes continued and the recalls from last year were being recalled again.

  A vivid scene of mayhem and murder in a schoolroom flashed upon the screen. A man had entered the kindergarten under the guise of being a repair man. Out of his tool box he took a large, homemade gun and sprayed bullets around the room until he had killed all thirty-six of the five year olds. Like broken dolls, the bodies lay, over and under the desks, some of the little girls still clutching dolls.

  An unreal scene in the kindergarten, and on an intricate board, a train with seven cars still roared and whistled, spitting smoke as it entered tunnels and climbed hills of the tiny, miniature town. In the science center of the school, the shattered fish tank had emptied the gold and black fish onto the floor to flop helplessly until the air ended their agony.

  One lone Angora rabbit, released from his prison by a bullet that shattered the lock on the cage, now jumped, bewildered, in and out among the dead children.

  The teacher, who had been spared, sat rigidly at her desk, still holding the blackboard pointer.

  The news continued.

  Locally, a man named John Lincoln had sued Trinity Aircraft after being fired for sleeping in the men's room. He went to court and proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he wasn't sleeping - only practicing Yoga. Mr. Lincoln was awarded three million dollars in damages and promoted to Employee Grievances Manager so that the wishes and needs of the employees would be better understood.

  Next on the news, the President in a brief message apologized and explained the delay in relief, Social Security, and other government checks, for the presses at Fort Knox were down, but the checks would be forthcoming as soon as the presses were fixed and new money printed.

  After it was announced that the disease of Vapors was now officially on the books, and it was a National Holiday, the news signed off.

  Christine sat frozen in horror; thirty-six children dead for no reason - murdered.

  When the comedy program began, she turned off the set. She knew what the program was like - filthy jokes, innuendos, and gutter humor had made it one of the top rated shows.

  She cleared her throat. "Anderson, they say the last plane leaves America on June 15th."

  He shrugged and sat mute. She studied him. He wasn't really a handsome man - striking, yes, tall with large expressive eyes - but quiet he was not really so impressive at all. It was his voice, his choice of words, that made him the spellbinder that he was.

  "Christine, there is no possible way we can do it," he said slowly. He looked at her - this stranger who nagged, bullied, spent his money, bore his children. Where had she come from - this stranger who struggled so hard against change?

  For many years he had written ads - ads that told women that a product made them beautiful, smart, sexy - that told them to live for today and enjoy everything now. He preached the It’s Okay Society. But somehow she had missed the message, his programming. It had eluded her. She had escaped him – and the image makers. He sat with his hands folded.

  Christine held her dream tightly, like a worn rag doll - her children and a promised land. Children murdered for absolutely no reason made her anxiety soar to a fever pitch. Her face crumpled and she cried, "If we sold the house..." She sobbed.

  "Who would buy it?" was his cruel answer.

  "Someone," she reasoned, "if we made it real cheap. It's a lovely house."

  He patted her shoulder and waited patiently until her crying had subsided.

  She didn't know him or anything about him. In the current she was a twig - twisted, angry, frightened - that fought against the friction; she hadn't realized that he and the children were as smooth stones - shaped, filed, sanded to fit by the tides of advertising. Only she was an obstruction; she couldn't believe the words - the commercials missed her. It was his life and her instinct told her he was special. He was chosen - but by whom?

  Chapter 17

  The elm tree had grown to outrageous proportions. It consumed her.

  She told Anderson she wanted a kitten to replace the one that had been killed. In his absent-minded way, he nodded assent. The children showed very little interest in the forthcoming pet; even Rachael, who had lost her cat, seemed totally disinterested. Christine called around and found a nearby pet shop that had a litter. It was imperative to go today as they had told her they had other people interested and didn't know when they'd be sold out.

  The shop was in Clayton - just three blocks away. There shouldn't be much danger on the streets since the police strike was over. It was a good neighborhood and it was weeks since she had seen any street people in the alley. But the burden of carrying a purse or pinning the money...she wanted to feel free. She decided to charge it to her telephone number, and, having it all planned, she felt almost happy as she left. She turned the dogs on and heard their angry growls at the door behind her. She must be gone at least an hour; the yellow pills were good for an hour - sometimes longer.

  She closed the gates and nodded to the angels. Their secret, the kiln, had given her one answer from its deepest corner. She would be patient. It would begin to talk.

  All the new things that had replaced religion
had not worked for her. Astrology, numerology, biorhythms, or God. She had angered God - He had not answered her; the cards had not fallen in any meaningful pattern; charts, ascendants, numbers; although there was something to numbers - they were universal.

  It was the day she looked into the kiln, counting, that it had answered. She didn't remember exactly, but she thought it was on number 3032 that it replied - a quiet whimper, a meow, soft and new like a new born kitten. She saw it then, at the back of the kiln. It was a vision of a tiny, grey, trembling kitten in the magnolia tree. The leaves shook with terror as the kitten, new and tiny, cried in the tree just above the spikes and the weeping angel.

  Christine arrived at the pet shop and buzzed at the locked door. The proprietor came, stared at her through the glass, decided she was a genuine customer, released the door and let her in.

  "Can I help you?"

  "Yes, yes, I want the grey kitten. I called - I'm Mrs. Thorpe. Very tiny, very small," and she indicated the size.

  "Well, as I told you on the phone, we do have some, but maybe not that small."

  She followed the man back to the cages. Five tiny kittens nursed at the grey striped, sleeping mother.

  "That one." She pointed to the runt - the one that fought for a place.

  "That one's four hundred dollars."

  "All right. I want to charge it to my phone."

  Disgusted, the clerk said, "I knew it...when I saw you without a purse. And by the way, we prefer gold or cash."

  "I didn't want to carry cash,” Christine explained. “It's all right. You can charge it to my phone - 721 0071."

  The clerk moaned, "I shouldn't do it - I could sell the whole litter to the dog trainers. They can't seem to get enough cats."

  "Please, I really need a kitten,” Christine begged. “My daughter's cat was killed."

  "Not many people keep pets like this anymore." He stared at Christine. Strange lady, he thought.

  "Please – Just this once," she coaxed. When we come back for food and supplies, I promise I'll bring cash – gold."

  "All right," and he handed the information to the girl at the till to get an OK.

  Christine thought she'd better carry the kitten home, forget a box. A box might look like something valuable. Carrying the kitten should be okay. It would be safe in broad daylight. She cuddled the small feline, cooing to it, "It's all right...it's all right, baby."

  She checked her watch. While she waited for the telephone charge to be OK’d, she walked restlessly up and down the aisles. Like everything else in the world, pet shops had radically changed. In the cages, fighting dogs bit at the wire, enraged at their neighbors. The dogs came with complete descriptions of their fight records and number of kills. On the opposite wall, the cages were occupied by fighting cocks, the silver shards gleaming on their legs. Some fluttered with excitement, hopping about the cage, slashing their own flesh. The newspapers lining the cages were dotted with dried blood.

  Christine shuddered and looked at the small bundle of fur that she held. It was so trusting as it clung to her. She was no different, no better, than the people who purchased those other animals. But she fought that feeling and told herself that hers was a sacred mission - something she must do.

  When she got home, she took the kitten to the tree. Its blue eyes looked up at the leaves - the space - the height. The wind rustled the leaves and a butterfly fluttered among the branches. With the instinct of four thousand years, the kitten reached its paw toward the motion. Prey! Soon, baby - soon!

  Her watch ticked. The growling inside subdued. She opened the door. The dogs, exhausted by their aggression and anger, dropped to the floor, panting. She locked the door and went down to the basement with the kitten. She opened the door of the kiln, stared into the dark interior, and began counting. The kitten fell asleep in her arms. When she reached 3032, she paused and asked, "Which one?" The oven was silent. She waited and then repeated, "Which one?"

  The lambs she had sculpted looked down at her from their various perches and she knew she would never make another one.

  Her plan was now in place, with only one detail to attend to. She would find an answer - she had to. No one in the house noticed her; she was a dishwasher, a vacuum cleaner, a lamp, the rug on the floor; and for the first time she was grateful for her family's disinterest.

  The house was alive with sound. Anderson's new commercial for crack gum was so cleverly written that even Christine found herself humming the tune. The TV spots advertising it were enticing and beautiful. On the strength of the campaign, the White House rehired him again to do their P.R. Anderson was ecstatic. He knew he would be setting public tastes for years. He deserved the name he was often called. He was indeed a spellbinder.

  Christine had that awful dream, asleep and awake. It always started the same way with that tune, like a piper luring mankind to eternity. She saw vivid, Tiffany colored, bottles - swirled iridescent, beautiful, like old antiques - bobbing in a sunlit sea, and always a group of laughing children retrieving and uncorking them and consuming the contents greedily. It always ended the same way. After consumption she saw them robot-like, bright eyes turned, haunted like her own. And she knew...how could Anderson not know? Gifts from the East were given to melt the children.

  The danger was real; she felt it in many ways. Even in the garden she heard it - the same tune - coming from the ground. Then the earth split and huge white worms crawled out of the cracks while distinctly, from below, like the pipes of Pan, the music played luring them on. She could not tell anyone; they would think that the madness had finally captured her. Maybe it had.

  On those nights when she awoke from the dream, she longed to crawl into Anderson's bed, but it was years since they had slept together and he had touched her. The gulf had grown with her nervousness and fears. Sometimes he blamed her and doubted her sanity; yet she still held firmly to the belief that it was the world gone crazy and not she.

  Now her footfalls were silent on the carpet. It did not disturb him as she walked toward his bed, longing for his comfort - for someone's comfort. She stopped and an audible gasp escaped her lips. She saw the even rhythm of his chest, yet his eyes were wide and staring upward, a film closed over them. He seemed to stare into some other dimension as he slept.

  She felt a sudden terror of him, and the house, and everything in the world. She called down the veils to protect her and went out to the garden. The thin veils ascended and she felt safe. In the house they all slept, and she knew she must rehearse – for the time was short.

  The fence was on so it was safe to be outside in the dark night. Christine heard a distinct hiss - the fence whispered to her. It was true, there was an evil here that she didn't understand. The May moon glowed full and danced in and out of the thin veneer of clouds. Like a light going on and off, it lit the yard and then plunged it into shadow.

  Christine ignored the urgent whisper. She wasn't mad, it was true the sound came from the fence. She could not bear to look, for what if the voices came from the mouths of the tiny angels. No, no, it's the wind, she lied to herself. I have work to do, I must rehearse, I need to practice. She pretended there was a figure on the porch who she would call - Luke or Matthew or Rachael. She called silently, a pantomime of a call, indicating the tree with a wide, broad gesture. See there, the kitty has climbed up there. We must get him before the fence is turned on, she mouthed to her invisible climbing companion and she pointed, pretending.

  There, see him, up there - so high - the kitten. We must get him down - he's terrified.

  Then - wait, let me be sure - let Mother be sure that the fence is turned off, she would need to say that.

  She waited, pantomiming a gesture. A pause, and then the other actor in her imaginary play had reached it, the last branch on the tree, their arms reaching above the angel. He, or she, connected and the kitten was safe in their arms.

  Now!...Now!...Now!...Christine...Now! she would tell herself, frantically forcing herself to commit the heinous ac
t. And, still trembling with the order in her mind, she would have to flip the switch to turn it on.

  Would it make a noise? Would it sizzle? Would the kitten cry out? Would the child and animal cling together, exonerated, mixed, two of God's creatures, on their way to instant paradise together?

  Saying – that end - Instant Paradise - would make her feel better, but the promise confused her choice even further. Now it was not which child she should sacrifice; it had reversed, turned full tilt. Now the question had become which two would she deny?

  Now she heard it, a sound in the alley. It was the first time she heard them without feeling fear. She made a strange figure in the night dressed in her long white gown, with her bare legs scratching the rose bushes.

  Behind her in the house, the dogs started a chorus of barking, steady, then a pause before it resumed – their barks loud and angry as their heritage was enhanced by so many years of chemicals.

  The foreigners and the street people in the alley felt fear and the hopelessness of walking the same barren territory they had walked before. They knew now to snake their hands through the fence without touching the metal. Sometimes, just sometimes, they could find a scrap of food from the overflowing garbage cans.

  They saw her, silhouetted in the dark night. The two men fell to their knees and crossed themselves, muttering Hail Marys. Only the young man stared at her with contempt. Why didn't she run - why wasn't she screaming? He saw her body through the thin veneer of material. It had been so long since he had had a woman. The girl in the homeless shelter and the one he had raped in another alley were the last, and that was months ago. He needed a woman. He looked at his two companions, kneeling, crying, praying in the dirt. "Stupid Assholes," he spat.

  They could not see her face, just a halo, a haze around her head. Her face was veiled.

  "Why - forgive me, Mother of God - why were we asked to come to this country? Only to live like outcasts scurrying through alleys like rodents?" the old man asked. "Why?" he whispered to the night.