Pucker (9 page)

“Couldn't you use the parts for something?” I ask Nigel.

“What parts?”

“The motor?”

“We've got no need for motors,” he says.

Unable to help myself, I snort with derision. I have little nostalgia for a world with no flush toilets, no screens to keep the mosquitoes out, no hot showers.

“You'll get used to it,” says Nigel.

I won't be here long enough to get used to it,
I want to say. Instead I try and appear jaded. The truth is, I know more about this world than Nigel 581 ever will. I know all about the brutal control behind this pastoral simplicity.

I wonder how Isaura will appear to my fellow Changed. Will they notice the small differences that set the two places apart? The way the grass in Isaura is more blue than green? The way the sky has a lavender cast? The way the air seems thicker, stuffed with more molecules? All of this I have forgotten until now.

Four more immigrants arrive that day: Jerome and Jesse, co-joined twins who are fused at the chest; Michael, who weighs five hundred and eight pounds; and a girl named Emma, who has xeroderma pigmentosum, a hypersensitivity to ultraviolet light.

Once we're all settled in the wagon, Nigel clucks to the horses and we begin to move. A strange restlessness throbs inside me. It's like I've grown a second heart, one for each world I've lived in. I don't know if that's good or bad. Two hearts might come in handy if one of them fails. Then again, two hearts will mean twice the heart-break.

I sit next to Emma, who has been allowed to keep the special clothing that protects her from the sun. She's younger, maybe eleven, and she's crying softly. All of us can hear her. I don't reach out to comfort her. None of us do. Right at that moment, we can think only of ourselves.

SEVENTEEN

“W
HOA.” NIGEL PULLS ON THE reins and the horses toss their heads. “The Laundry,” he announces.

We've been traveling for over an hour. Nigel has stopped at a large wooden building with sliding doors. The smell of bleach permeates the air.

It's our first look at the Changed and my group stares at them in silence. I can tell they're taken aback at their beauty. They have a strange luminosity about them, as if the light around them is constantly being churned.

“Angels,” whispers Emma.

“No,” says Rose. “People just like us.”

Although my group is enthralled with the Changed, we don't seem to inspire the same fascination. The Changed aren't looking at us; in fact, most of them are looking
beyond
us with careful gazes. Are they doing that in order to make us feel welcome? Often people do that with us freaks. They pretend they don't see our abnormalities. That's the worst. It's like pretending you don't see a skyscraper on fire. At the same time, you don't want someone screaming, “Call 911,” when they see you. But the Changed used to
be
us. Don't they remember?

“Back to work,” says Nigel, and the Changed obediently return to their giant cauldrons of steaming water.

The wagon rolls on. The countryside gleams as if it's been freshly scrubbed with Ajax and steel wool. Cardinals call to one another and locusts whir in the branches of the pine trees. There are meadows, furrowed potato fields, and manicured vegetable gardens. I can't help but be moved by Isaura's untouched beauty. That is, until I think about what this place did to my family.

I glance at Emma, who's curled up in a ball, no longer moving. Finally I shake off my self-absorption and place my hand on her back. She's so skinny I can see her shoulder blades right through her jacket. She shudders at my touch.

“We're almost there,” I tell her. What can it be like never to have stood in the sun?

We drive by a lumberyard, a dairy, hay fields, and a barn. By the time the wagon arrives at the Compound, the rest of my group knows how they'll be spending their days: chopping wood and making soap, plowing and planting, weeding and harvesting, haying, threshing, and slopping pigs.

The wagon comes to a halt in front of a white clapboard building. The scent of baked apples comes wafting out. I can just visualize the cinnamon and the cream and the little pats of butter on top. My stomach begins to rumble and I want nothing more than to go inside and eat. Suddenly I feel terrified. I pinch the inside of my wrist hard enough to draw blood. I could sink down into that smell and lose myself. Forget why I have come. Baked apples are not for you, I remind myself. Finding your mother's Seerskin and getting the hell out is.

“Quicksilver, Thomas, climb down,” instructs Nigel. “Your Host is here.”

I clamber out of the wagon and stand in the dusty street, unsure of what to do next. A man materializes in the doorway of the building. He crooks his finger, beckoning me. “I'm Dash 482,” the man says, sizing me up. “Let's go.”

I hesitate.

“Now,” he says menacingly, stepping out of the doorway.

It's too late to turn back. I obey.

EIGHTEEN

T
HE SIX OF US EAT alone that first night, like children getting their meal out of the way before the adults sit down with their wine and lamb chops. The Changed are still out on work detail; they won't return for another hour.

It can't be later than four in the afternoon and the sun streaming through the windows of the refectory is a soft pinkish gold. The light nudges me outside myself; I can't believe I'm back in Isaura. None of us speak. There's only the sound of silverware clinking against the pewter plates.

“Listen closely,” says Dash, clapping to get our attention. “These are your Hosts.” He gestures to the five men and women sitting with him at a circular table.

“You'll live with us during your first hundred days in Isaura. After that time you'll be assigned to dormitories. Let me warn you. There will be an adjustment. You may not find this easy. This is not America. None of us is rare here. None of us is exceptional or special. The sooner you realize this, the quicker your conversion will be. Do you understand?”

We nod like good Recruits.

“The longer you're here, the easier things will get. I can promise you that,” says Dash. At that point, I tune out. I wriggle around impatiently in my chair. Dash doesn't notice; he's too busy proselytizing.

About ten minutes later he finally wraps up his little sermon.

“Look around you, then. This is your surrogate family. I suggest you get to know one another. It will be easier if you figure out what you have in common rather than what separates you,” he says.

Dash pauses, trying to gauge whether he's getting through to us. His gaze falls on me. I attempt to look both worried and excited. He scowls. I'm not fooling him. Or maybe he can't see past my scar tissue.

“All groups meet once a week. Elect a foreman. Someone to represent you all.” Dash waves his hand at us dismissively and sits down.

I size him up between bites of mashed potato. Dash is in his early twenties, lean but really fit, probably from chopping all that wood.

I remember the Host my mother and I saw that day we went to the Compound. The way he watched us, as if he were trying to memorize our faces. Perhaps he turned my parents in, somehow figured out that they were malcontents and tipped off the Ministry.

Other than Dash, the Hosts don't look like watchdogs at the moment, though. They look more like a group of Pennsylvania Dutch, getting ready to attend a barn raising. All of them wear brown canvas work pants and blue shirts. I feel rather than see their eyes descend on me. I turn my attention back toward the table.

Then Dash stands up again. “Forgot to mention,” he drawls. “Tomorrow morning Nigel 581 will take you all to the Ministry. That's when you'll be Changed.”

I drop my fork as a jolt of pure adrenaline races through my system, desperate to find some way out. Tomorrow? Somehow I never imagined the Change would happen right away.

Michael belches. His greasy hands hang from his wrists like two platters. “Pass the potatoes,” he says.

Rose, the paralyzed woman, studies me. “Are you having second thoughts?” she asks me softly.

“Aren't you?” I say.

“I'm not,” says Jesse.

“Me either,” echoes Jerome loudly. “We can't wait to get the hell away from each other.”

Suddenly Dash is standing at our table. “Who's having second thoughts?” he demands.

Like children keeping a secret from the teacher, none of us answer.

“You?” Dash asks me.

I shake my head. My heart is hammering.

“Well, I'm not sure I believe you, T. Everybody has second thoughts.”

He called me “T.” I haven't heard that name for nine years. Not since the day my father died. But how could Dash know about that? How could anyone know?

Dash waits for my response. I don't know what to say. Suddenly I don't feel capable of doing this. Masquerading as a Changed. Finding my mother's Seerskin. The walls of the room collapse and grow smaller.

“Um,” I say.

“Eat, asshole,” Jesse whispers.

I have the sudden urge to laugh hysterically. Instead I cram my mouth full of food.

 

We're all a little scared when the time comes to split up after dinner. We have known each other for only a few hours, but the intensity of our situation has united us.

Have you ever seen a five-hundred-pound man walk? It's a nearly impossible feat. Michael is able to take two or three steps and then he has to rest. He looks like he's about to suffocate—the effect of gravity on pendulous flaps of flesh. I try to help. I nearly fall under the weight of him until Jesse and Jerome prop up his other side.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“Nice teamwork,” comments Dash, his hand under his chin, as if he's watching sperm swim around in a petri dish. Slowly we make our way to Nancy 499's house, where Michael's staying.

How can I best describe the Compound? Have you ever been to Sturbridge Village? Just like that, minus the gift shop where you can buy bayberry-scented room spray and hore-hound candy. The Compound is dotted with small clapboard buildings that are grouped around a central village green. Suddenly the air fills with voices. We stop in mid-stride, a parade of freaks, and the Changed are all around us.

“Let them pass,” says Nancy.

They move around us like a current, intent on one thing: the Refectory. It's only then that I become aware of the gonging—the bell that signals the end of the workday. In a few minutes time the Refectory doors swing shut and the green is deserted again except for us.

All the Hosts have houses of their own; the rest of the Changed live in dormitories. Among the Changed the Hosts hold the power.

Dash and I are the last to go home. Finally I stand in his kitchen, my knees wobbling with exhaustion.

“Bathroom's outside. We've got running water. No electricity. You'll stay here.”

He opens a door. My room contains a bed and a chair, little else. On the bed are two neatly folded piles of clothes and on the floor a pair of boots. There's one window that looks out on the green. There are no curtains. I'll have no privacy.

“You'll find two changes of clothes. They'll need to last you all week. Laundry is done on Saturdays,” says Dash. He stands in the doorway, waiting. I squirm under his gaze. Am I supposed to do something? Give him a tip?

“Come on,” he says, thrusting out his hand. “Get changed and give me your old clothes.”

Oh no! My Barker's. I've smuggled it in. It's a tiny book, the size of my hand, and at the moment it resides in the back pocket of my jeans.

“Okay, just give me a minute,” I say, moving to shut the door. I have to find somewhere to hide the primer.

“No,” he says, stepping into the room. “In front of me.”

“I've got to go to the bathroom.” It's the only thing I can think of to say.

He snorts. “Get undressed.”

“No, I mean it. If you don't let me go, I'll have an accident.” I squeeze my legs together for emphasis.

“Jesus,” he says, and moves aside.

I run to the outhouse. I look up and see he's watching me from the window. I swing the wooden door shut behind me.

“Leave it open,” he yells.

Luckily it's dark in the outhouse. I slide the Barker's out of my back pocket with one hand and undo my jeans with the other. There's only one place to hide the book. I bury it in the pail of lime. I'll have to retrieve it tomorrow.

“Move it, kid,” Dash hollers.

When I get back to the room, I hurriedly strip down to my underwear and then I reach for the brown pants.

He holds out a burlap bag.

“Put your clothes in here.”

I watch him eye my Levi's hungrily as I fold them into a square. He's probably sick to death of wearing those puffy pants. Here's my opportunity to make nice.

“They're yours,” I say, handing them to him.

He takes my jeans and caresses the faded worn fabric with the fingers of his right hand. “Well, I'll be damned,” he says. Then, with his left hand, he pulls me toward him and forcefully grabs the back of my neck.

“You think I want your cast-off jeans?” He grins. His teeth are perfect—thirty-two squares of peppermint gum.

“No, sir. I just thought you might be tired—”

Dash drops the jeans to the floor. “What kind of a game are you playing, T?”

“No game,” I say, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.

“I don't believe you, kid. How're you going make me believe?” He leans forward, his breath a hot vapor in my face.