Elias's Fence Read online

  The two old men bowed their heads. The one mumbled a hurried prayer, asking forgiveness for the questions.

  Christine came closer to the fence. The yard was two feet above the alley. It made her appear tall - goddesslike. The breeze fluttered her gown. The old man touched the cloth of her hem through the fence. He kissed it. She jumped back, kneeled down, and looked into their faces, and for the first time felt pity. They were the refugees here, or illegal aliens - she had heard the lilt of Spanish. Soon she would be a refugee in some strange new land. She felt pity for their anguish, crawling through the alleys. Their invitation to come here was a punctuation mark, a stupid insincere remark fallen too quickly from a politician's lying mouth.

  The men cried after her, "Bless us, please Mother, bless us, Mother."

  They went away down the alley, convinced they had seen the Virgin. It gave them the strength to continue to grovel in the dark alleys and yet feel hope. Only the young one left the place wondering how could he get over the fence.

  Chapter 18

  In a heartbeat it could be accomplished. But still Christine waited, courting courage. So long it had been since she had felt its measure.

  The kitten grew quickly. It roamed the house, teasing the dogs, clawing her beautiful needlepoint chairs. It slept on the end of her bed. To compensate for what lay ahead, she fed it salmon and cream. It grew fat.

  As if by a reliable newspaper delivery boy, the latest underground Paper was found tucked into the front gates. The news pushed her closer. It told of mass graves for the starved, of cannibalism and other unspeakable acts that were now commonplace, all of the horror that occurred in the wasteland.

  It was not the government that ventured there to bury the dead - it was the barely-living that threw the rotten corpses into the River Des Peres, from where they floated out to the Mississippi where the waters finally led to the sea. Refugees with a Catholic heritage background, for lack of anything else to do, dug the graves and buried the known and the unknown, after they had been stripped of all useable belongings.

  Stray dogs which had the luck of being different, survived. A dog with one eye, or a black-rimmed tail, or four white paws, was seen as an omen by some. Gaunt, thin, wound tight as a spring, they were seen feeding on the dead which were not thrown into the canal or buried soon enough.

  Flies swarmed in dense clouds - it was not a wasteland for them.

  A television set plugged into one standing wall of an otherwise destroyed building gathered crowds. It was community property. They stared as dumb, idiot children, listening to the commercials advertising jobs, papers, crack, water pipes. Their eyes glued to the set as tantalizing food commercials danced before them. But the cruelest torture they were subjected to was the "State of the Union Address". There he was, the President, smiling - rows of gleaming white teeth - promising jobs, promising tomorrow, promising checks for any number of reasons; promising checks to people who had no mailboxes.

  They sat is fascination watching this man who played with them so cruelly. And the refugees rubbed their wrists, looking at the bracelets that would not come off. They remembered the other smiling - eternally smiling - president who had had their relatives come. They had worn the bracelets proudly then. But it was a cat and mouse game of intense cruelty. They did not understand it. Each man searched his soul for some past unpardonable sin that had brought him here to this promised land to be punished. Here, where the poor grew poorer and where morality had lost its meaning - where everything and anything was okay. In the wasteland the fires burned as night fell. They clung to each other, huddled in tight groups for protection.

  Some men ventured into the night. Some came back with a prize - food or a woman - which they usually shared so as not to lose the prize entirely. Some ventured into the night and never returned. Each night took its toll; each sunrise there were new bodies to float or be buried.

  Waste, it was all a matter of waste - waste of the human body and spirit. The barrenness of it made them savage. Tonight they saw a gleaming car circling the edge of the streets. They knew the windows were shatterproof and that the tires would still roll even if punctured. But who were they, those who came and cruised the wasteland? What did they want? Eyes looked at the fancy car from behind the rubble, waiting, hoping, they would enter. No, slowly the car cruised around and around the edge of the wasteland. They searched for something that they eventually found! One lone, ragged boy - Hispanic, young, pathetic, starving. They opened the door of the car. "Come here, amigo," Matt called.

  He approached the car suspiciously and looked inside to the dimly lit plush interior. The occupants were young and pleasant - he saw their broad smiles. "Yes? You rich? I will work," he promised.

  "Yeah, we got work. Get in," Matt coaxed, keeping his voice friendly.

  The boy looked back at the tumble of bricks and the fires. There was nothing back there to keep him. "You got work?" he asked again as he peered into the dark interior of the car trying to decide what to do about the strange invitation.

  The young men, smiling like the President, made him uneasy, but the young lady who sat looking at him - she was so young, so beautiful, so clean. And there was warmth and compassion in her face. Instead of running away, he got in.

  Luke put the car in gear and reversed, leaving the wasteland. No one spoke until the girl looked at him and sniffed loudly. "Jesus, you stink!"

  He nodded pleasantly, not sure he understood her.

  She directed her smile toward him, but she was speaking to her brothers. "When we get home let's throw him in the bathtub." Luke nodded and cranked up the stereo until the car vibrated with the loud music. No one spoke.

  When they pulled up to the magnificent house, he couldn't believe his luck. He walked between them - an agreeable prisoner - through the gates and up the marble stairs into the hall. He felt as if he had been lost these seven years of homelessness and had just returned to civilization. He made motions with his hands.

  "Food - he wants food. Matthew, get some food," Rachael ordered.

  The boy followed them excitedly into the huge clean kitchen. The contrast made him appear even dirtier. He folded his shaking hands and stood waiting patiently. Luke retrieved a plate from the cupboard, opened the fridge, and piled the plate high with meat, peas, and cold mashed potatoes. Rachael filled a tall glass with milk. But they did not put the food on the table. Instead, Rachael, her eyes dancing with a strange excited glint, held the glass high and then turned it savagely upside down. The milk spilled everywhere. Following suit, Luke tilted the plate and the food slithered down onto the waxed floor in a disgusting heap.

  "Lick it up," Rachael commanded, her eyes glowing with a feverish excitement.

  The boy fell to the floor, gobbling, lapping, choking in his hunger. Crawling, he retrieved each pea, not understanding the cruel game but playing it perfectly. He crawled under the table to get the last remaining pea. Intuitively, he understood he wasn't to use his hands. They stood above him, shivering.

  When the game was finished like a clock run down, a calmness enveloped them.

  "Come, amigo, you take a bath," Rachael said.

  She led him up the winding stairs and he knew they weren't alone in the house, for he heard a woman talking in the yard - a recitation like she was learning a part in a play. And somewhere, in another part of the house, he heard a tape recorder. It was playing commercials.

  Rachael led him to the huge bathroom, filled the tub, left him clean clothes, and closed the door. He sank into the water, full and satisfied, and thought of his mother in Cuba, wondering if she was alive. He heard no footsteps, just the background noises. No hurry. He bathed, shaved, and put on the clean clothes she had left him, and then wandered about the large room touching the soaps, the perfumes, the cosmetics. What sort of job, he wondered. To eat, to feel clean, he would do almost anything.

  He left the soiled heap of clothes on the floor, feeling like he had relieved himself there. Cautiously, he walked into the hall. A
nother door opened and a tall man with a shock of black hair stared at him.

  Anderson looked at the boy without surprise. He was expected. He measured him with a glance and smiled, and then turned and went back into the room from which he had come. The children had done well - he was satisfied.

  Quietly, carefully, the boy walked down the stairs, unsure of himself, almost tiptoeing. The voice he heard through the window was a soft, gentle woman's voice. This alone led him to believe everything was okay.

  They were waiting for him in the hall, each seated in a high backed chair. The tallest boy, the one they called Matthew, got up and the others followed. He lagged behind, feeling he should follow but unsure still. The girl motioned him to come.

  They went down to the basement, to the family room. The stereo was turned on and a singer wailed. The tabs were torn from the beer cans and they offered him a line of coke. They sat down and no one spoke, waiting for the numbness of the drugs to set in. Matthew put a tab of Ecstasy on his tongue and waited for the inevitable notes to appear, to dip and float above the stereo. Sometimes they were in color, but most of the time they were black, jumping off a page of music. When he was high he could see the music.

  The refugee accepted his second can of beer and sank back, relaxed. It was all so marvelous that he let the wondering leave. He felt out of himself - floating. Time waited. Across the room he stared at the girl, she so beautiful and pure, with skin that looked so soft. He could almost feel the softness. Her head was thrown back against the cushions and he saw her breasts heave slowly under the soft white silk blouse. And then the unbelievable thing happened - she languidly let her legs fall apart, and under the soft fullness of the white skirt he saw the dark triangle of her. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Was it an invitation?

  Like two angry wolves, suddenly the brothers were upon him. "Mother fucker!" They grabbed him by the borrowed shirt, lifted him angrily, and flung him down on his knees on the concrete floor in front of her. Still her legs inched further apart.

  "You eat pussy?" they asked, but it was not a question, it was a command. These were his friends and she was a goddess. Gladly he crawled forward. The clock stopped somewhere in the universe. He tasted her flesh.

  Again like a shot, like something gone astray with madness, he was torn away from the girl and they pounced upon him and assaulted him, and each boy degraded him with their rape of his body. In that moment in time he hoped that his mother in Cuba was dead.

  He lay spent on the concrete floor, insensible. Now they would kill him, he was certain of this. But they zipped up their pants, resumed their seats, and proceeded to drink and snort coke. No words passed between them; the only sound was the madness of the music.

  After a time he got up and straightened his clothes, not sure what was to happen next. Guiltily he sat, looking for exit doors. But all he saw were low, barred windows. There was no way to escape.

  They continued to sniff the coke and offered him some. An indeterminable amount of time passed.

  Finally, Matthew rose and beckoned him to the window. Through the bars he indicated, "These, I will hang these on the fence." He held up - shoved them - into the refugee's face. "See these white panties? I will hang these on the fence. Then you earn big money."

  They heard their mother somewhere outside in the darkness, reciting words, talking to someone who did not answer. Her voice came from above them in the yard.

  "Four nights," Matthew said. He held up four fingers. "Four nights. You come back and look for these hanging on the fence. Much money you'll get." He held the boy, shaking him. "Understand, Mother fucker?"

  They resumed drinking, snorting and listening to the music. Elsewhere the house was quiet. Matthew rose first and walked up the steps. The others followed. He went into the kitchen and filled a bag with food and then led the way to the car.

  The refugee couldn't believe that they were going to let him go. His stomach pained from all the food and drugs.

  They drove in silence. The cocaine, still in control, had quelled time and sequence, speeded up the lights of the streets, strung like beacons on a beach.

  They stopped two blocks from the wasteland and turned off the lights. "I don't think this son of a bitch knows how to count," Luke raved.

  "Neither do I," Matthew agreed.

  They got out of the car. He didn’t risk running away. He just began counting, "Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco, seis..." The refugee began counting frantically in Spanish, certain that his life depended on it.

  "See..." the girl accused, "he doesn't know how to count. Amigo, you're supposed to stop on four," she scolded.

  "I knew it,” Luke agreed. “The son of a bitch can't count!"

  No one answered this accusation and silence fell around them, thick as summer heat. The clock ticked - three, four, five. Mathew and Rachael stood waiting on the sidewalk while he cowered in the back seat.

  "Out, you bastard!" she screamed at him.

  As he stepped out, Luke flung him forward. His face hit the broken pavement.

  "Uno, dos, quatro, cinco, seis..." he counted frantically.

  "See...See?" she said. "Four! Four!" leaning down she screamed in his ear. Stop at four. Four days you earn lots of money - if only you can remember, you dumb bastard."

  With his face in the dirt and his eyes tightly closed, he heard strange sounds - the clanging of tools. Rachael knelt down beside him. Very gently, she took his hand and kissed his palm; she turned it over and laid it flat on the pavement; she held his wrist where his I.D. tags were now loose. Softly, like a butterfly's wing, her finger traced around the bracelet. Only the noise - that terrible crash that splintered the pavement where the axe had struck. The sound startled him. But he did not feel it; he did not even know what had happened.

  "Four! Four nights from now!" hissed Luke. "You come and earn money."

  Rachael scrounged around in the dirt like a child on an Easter egg hunt, searching and giggling. "I found them! Look! I found them!" she squealed.

  Luke lifted the boy’s head by his hair. "Four, you dumb bastard! Four nights!"

  Rachael held the bloody fingers up before his face. "Look! One, two, three, four!" showing him the number four.

  "On the fence. These will be on the fence!" Luke said as he smeared the panties in his face. "Four nights from now you come, bring lots of friends. You earn money."

  "I want to keep them," she whined dancing up and down like a spoiled child, and holding the four bloody fingers tightly, not caring that they stained her dress.

  The boys threw money down on the ground around him - on him. Great piles, huge stacks.

  "And there is more, a lot more money," promised Luke. "Bring your friends," and he leaned down and whispered instructions in his ear.

  And they drove off into the night, laughing.

  At home in her room Rachael looked with alarm at her stained dress. She threw it down the laundry chute and ran a bath.

  When she sunk into the tub slowly the chemicals leached out of her body and dissolved into the fragrant bubbles, and scenes flew past her eyes. It was like watching a kaleidoscope. She wasn’t sure what was real and what was not.

  When the water cooled she drew on a robe and went to the bedroom. On the nightstand she saw the snow-white napkin that was stained blood red and like a dream she remembered what had been wrapped up in it – or was that a dream? She dropped to her knees and looked around the floor and under the table when she noticed the door was slightly ajar.

  For some reason she felt the need to tiptoe, and as she glanced into the dim hall she saw the dog’s tail retreating as one of the shepherds was making a guilty get-away.

  “Oh, no,” she said aloud and held her mouth as she rushed to the bathroom just in time.

  Weak and shaking she remained sitting on the cool tile floor, her mind and memory searching for the truth.

  With Nirvana, the special vitamins, and the winds of forgetfulness, the world was one way – but times like now when memory
– or remembering fought to get through, the world was a very different place. She felt that alien sensation – fear. She was afraid, of everything and everyone – most of all herself.

  Frantically, she searched through the bedside table, opened the bottle of vitamins, and threw back her head as she swallowed a handful.

  Wheels turned, cogs fell in place, and sensations tumbled, and finally numbness triumphed.

  Drunkenly she stumbled towards the rumpled bed and fell into the place that her father, Anderson, had carved out for her in this world. She lay comatose until morning.

  Chapter 19

  Something had changed in the house. There was a current of excitement. Christine wondered if maybe it was good. She no longer bothered Anderson. There was no point until her task was complete and it was possible.

  She sat quietly with the needlepoint pillow in her hands. The needle stabbing in and out satisfied her. It was bold of her, but she knew he would never look at her needlework. The words she was stitching in red asked "God, Please Bless This House". She would display it on some worn, comfortable couch in Australia.

  She was sure now. Her mission lay before her and she understood about sacrifice. She stitched and ignored the auction on the TV wall screen, but the scent of alcohol and other medicinal smells filled the room, Virtual Reality firmly in place. The auctioneer's singsong voice lulled her as he sold the various parts - hearts, livers, lungs, eyes, human and animal - to the highest bidder. Anderson made notations in his ever-present notebook. He owned a lot of stock in these companies and kept his hand on the pulse of the industry.

  That auction over, the program changed and she heard the wail of babies. Excited by the cries, the cat clawed at her toes.

  "Ouch!"

  Her exclamation drew Anderson's attention. "Are you all right, my dear?"