Taken (12 page)

I had nothing to say to him, either. Not out loud, anyway. Inside my head I was saying,
You are pathetic. Both of you. What do you want me to do, feel sorry for you?

For the first time in a long time, I thought about my mother. What had she ever seen in this selfish, shallow man? And what would she think of this woman, this video performer, who he had chosen as her replacement?

Not much, I was sure.

Dr. M. Reyes

T
ime in the ambulance passed incredibly slowly. I watched the blue numerals fade from 17:10 to 17:11 to 17:12. Dessi was seated with his back to me and his head against the metal wall. I couldn’t tell if he was staring at the two-way, doing his sentry duty, or sleeping.

I wondered again: Did I dare to try an escape? Could I slide off the stretcher, moving very slowly? (I thought of a Mrs. Veck moment as she described the killer in “The Tell-Tale Heart” moving more slowly than the minute hand of a watch.) Could I do that until I eased open the door, jumped down, and ran for it? Maybe. Maybe I could.

But I was still wearing footed pajamas.

And I had been trained to cooperate fully with the kidnappers.

And I was, at heart, a sniveling coward.

I soon abandoned any such thoughts and turned my mind to a safer place, Christmas Day at The Highlands.

On Christmas morning, I stayed in bed until 09:00, wishing that both my father and Mickie would leave without feeling compelled to say goodbye. When I got downstairs, my Christmas wish had come true. Mickie was off to her Orlando parade, and my father was off somewhere, too.

Victoria asked me if I had slept well. Then she asked me what I wanted for my Christmas breakfast. I slid onto a stool at the kitchen counter and answered, “I don’t care, as long as it’s not Edwardian. Something twenty-first century, please.”

A few minutes later, Albert served me a cranberry muffin, scrambled eggs, and grapefruit juice. After I finished eating and washed my own dishes, I invited both Victoria and Albert to join me in the living room. They resisted the idea at first, especially Albert, but they ultimately gave in.

Victoria and Albert perched themselves on the edges of two living room chairs like they were ready to run at the first sound of a door opening. I sat on the floor next to our beautifully decorated three-meter Norway spruce, breathing in its sweet scent. Only I knew that there was a present hidden beneath the tree, stashed in a place where no one would ever look.

After some polite chatter with them, I crawled under the shiny boughs and pulled that present out. It was wrapped poorly in some plain green paper, the only wrapping I could find at the time. I handed it to Albert, saying, “It seems that there is still one Christmas present to give out.”

Albert frowned. He told me, “Miss Charity, you know I can’t accept any gift directly from you. It’s against RDS regulations.”

“I know. But this is not from me. So it’s okay.”

Albert took the gift in hand as I explained: “It’s from that girl in Mangrove. The one with the cleft palate. She made me promise to give it to you.”

Albert’s eyes shifted toward the door, like a trapped animal’s. But with some coaxing from Victoria, he finally settled down and unwrapped the gift. After a puzzled glance, he held it up for us to see. It was a wooden
tornada,
with a large
L
carved on the front.

Victoria said, “I remember that girl. She was very pretty. Who was she, Albert?”

“I couldn’t tell you. Just some girl. I didn’t know her.”

“She knew you.” Victoria winked at me. “Or maybe she just wanted to.”

Albert smiled tightly. “Well, a lot of those kids sure wanted to know you. They always do.” He held up the doll again. “So now I’ve got a fan, too.” He stood and made a hasty exit, sliding the
tornada
into his suit coat pocket.

Victoria and I sat in silence for a few seconds. I waited for the right moment to bring up a sore subject. “Victoria? Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, Miss Charity.”

“Patience told me…that Daphne told her…that your father just died.”

Victoria’s mouth tightened. “She should not have talked about my personal business. That’s against regulations.”

“Still, I’m glad she did. I want to say that I am so sorry, Victoria.”

“Thank you.”

“I would like to hear a little bit about your father.”

“I’m afraid that would—”

“Be against regulations, too?”

“Yes.”

We sat in silence again while I worked out a plan. “Okay, then. Listen: I have a paper coming up for Mrs. Veck.”

Victoria looked at me suspiciously. “Oh yes? What is it about?”

“It’s about the global community. We each had to spin the globe and put our finger down on a random spot and write about someone from that spot. I have to write about a man living in Mexico City. Can you tell me a little about a man living there so I can use it in my paper?”

Victoria knew I was trying to con her. “Miss…”

“Because I don’t have any idea what his life would be like. For example, what would he do for a job?”

She sighed. “A job?” She glanced at the door and then at me. “A job. All right. A man there might sell something.”

“Yes? Sell what?”

Victoria smiled sadly. “He might sell
naranjas.
” She translated for me: “Oranges.”

“And how would he do that?”

I had her hooked now. In a soft voice, she explained, “He might walk to the market and purchase one hundred
naranjas;
he might carry them to a street corner in a wealthy area; he might sit by the curb and sell them. If he sold two hundred pesos’ worth, he made his money back. If he sold more, he made a profit.”

“Would he have a shop, or a stall, or anything?”

“No. Just a curb on the roadside. To every car that passed, he would call out,
‘¿Quiere usted una naranja?’
”

I nodded. “Excellent. That’s excellent information. And what would the man’s wife do?”

“She would be at home. With their children.”

“How many children?”

“Maybe two.”

“A boy and a girl?”

“Maybe two girls.”

“Would they be really poor?”

“No. They would have a good home. Each girl would have a dress for church and a school uniform. Their mother would walk them to school every day.”

I started to ask another question, but she interrupted me. “And that’s all you will get from me for your paper. Now go write it for Mrs. Veck.”

“Thanks, Victoria.”

“Yes. Thank you, too.”

I was still smiling, remembering that exchange, when Dessi broke into my thoughts. He was tapping on the foot of the stretcher. When I looked up at him, he said, “You need a bathroom break.”

I answered, “I need a bathroom. I need a few minutes of privacy. I need to brush my teeth, damn it.”

“Sorry. You know how it has to be.”

“Come on!
You
go to a bathroom. There must be one right outside!”

He just repeated, “Sorry.”

“Then forget it. I can wait.”

“You’re supposed to be drinking your Smart Water. Three bottles a day, for complete nutrition.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“I know you’re not. You don’t want to get dehydrated. The doctor would not like that.”

That word really offended me. “The doctor? How can you call that criminal out there ‘the doctor’?”

Dessi shrugged.

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“No. It’s just a word, like any other word.”

“Excuse me, but no. It’s a title. A title that should be earned.”

Dessi’s lip curl returned. “Spoken like a true Highlands girl. You’ve never gone to a clinic doctor. Have you?”

I admitted, “No.”

“If you had, you’d know it’s just a word.”

“Oh yeah? A word, let’s say, like ‘kidnapper’?”

Dessi’s eyes twitched slightly.

“You don’t like it when I call you that word, do you?”

He answered defiantly, “I would rather you called me that word than some others.”

“Like what?”

“Like ‘servant.’”

“Really? You think ‘servant’ is something shameful to be?”

“Yes. And so do you, if you’re being honest.”

“Absolutely not!”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Dessi pulled down the bench and sat. I figured he was through talking, but I was wrong. He pointed an accusing finger at me. “Would
you
be a servant?”

“Yes.”

“An RDS servant, with the fake costume and the fake name and all?”

“Absolutely. I work with Victoria all the time. I’d be just like her. I’d work at RDS and save enough to go to college.”

“Really? You would come down from your throne and work for a master?”

“I would work for
myself.
At an honest job. And make my own currency. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

“Oh no! Things have gotten so much better for the servant class. I hear some of them even get health care.” Dessi held his hands up. His palms were very white. “Did you know that the servants of an Egyptian pharaoh, when the pharaoh died, had to march into his pyramid with him, get sealed in there, and then slowly die of starvation so that they could continue to serve him in the land of the dead?”

“No.”

“Nowadays, when servants die, they get to stay dead. They don’t have to serve anymore. So yes, I suppose
that
part of the job has improved.”

I shook my head at his hypocrisy. “You’re the one who looks down on servants. Not me.”

“That is such
mierda.
Such
merde.
You look down on anyone who isn’t from your economic class. Everyone except Ramiro Fortunato. He’s admirable to you. Why? Because he defends all the rules that keep you on top.”

I repeated his words from earlier: “How could I admire him? He’s not even a real person.”

Dessi leaned forward, engaging me. “Okay. That’s true. So tell me, who is a real person who we can all admire?”

I shrugged.

“Who is the most admired person who ever lived?”

I reverted to my Mrs. Veck form, looking away and muttering, “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. It’s Jesus.”

“Okay.”

“Jesus was born a poor boy, and he died an even poorer man. The Roman guards took away his last possession, the clothes off his back. He had absolutely nothing left.
Rien.
That’s what makes him such a great role model, right?”

I shrugged again.

“He was the son of God, and yet he was content to be poor as dirt. That’s a powerful message to send to a servant, isn’t it? ‘What are you complaining about, poor boy? Jesus himself was poorer than you, and he is the most admired man who ever lived!’

“That’s not why people follow Jesus.”

“Maybe not. But it’s why people like
you
want people like
me
to follow Jesus.”

“Jesus never kidnapped anybody. I can tell you that.”

Dessi ignored my comment and continued, “Now, who is the most admired American who ever lived?” This time he didn’t wait for a reply. “Abraham Lincoln. Every year, in every poll, he wins the prize. Why? Because he was the poor boy who made it. He was born with nothing, but he educated himself, and he grew up to be the President of the United States!”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Wrong.”

“What about the President we have now? He was poor. And he was black.”

“He still is black.”

“Yes. So that means the poor can still make it. So what’s your point?”

“That you will use this one poor boy as a role model for us all. However, the dirty little secret, the thing that you will not tell us, is this: You’re only going to let one poor boy succeed. The other fifty million poor boys who work like slaves to overcome poverty and racism will fail. They will not become the President. And they will blame themselves, never realizing that the deck was stacked against them all along.”

“So what?”

“So what!”

“Yeah. So maybe they don’t become President of the United States. I’m not going to be President, either. But they can become something else, something productive. They sure don’t have to become kidnappers.”

This time his whole face showed the sting of my words.

I went on. “They don’t have to waste their lives sitting around feeling sorry for themselves, like some people.”

He snarled at me, “Like who?”

“Like you. You feel so sorry for yourself because you’re not in college. So why don’t you get into college? You had some hard times, sure. Some really bad things have happened to you. But you could work to overcome those things, like…like Ramiro Fortunato.”

“Don’t talk to me about that fool!”

“Then like Abraham Lincoln. No. Instead, you turn to kidnapping, and robbery, and murder.”

“I am not a murderer!”

It was my turn to snarl at him. “And then you sit here, Mr. I Know Everything About Everything, and try to defend yourself! Blaming everything on your top four layers of derma.”

“My what?”

“Your skin color. That’s all it is, four layers of derma, with active melanin molecules.”

Dessi actually looked at the skin on his arms and then back at me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Racism is about a lot more than skin color.”

“And your poverty. Let me tell you something. You don’t look that poor to me. You sure don’t sound it. I don’t know any kid who has the education you do. You know biology, and history, and politics; you speak French. You have no excuse for staying poor.”

“Oh no? How about that somebody shot my father dead? How about that somebody let my mother die because she had no currency?”

I waited a suitable time to say, “I’m sorry. Those were really bad things.”

“Tell me about it, little rich white princess.”

“But my mother died, too. Long before yours. And my father—well, my father is lost to me in a very real way. He’s only around to pay the bills.”

Dessi sat back in his seat.
“C’est vrai.”
He pointed over at the clock. “That’s what he’s around for, all right. To pay the bills with a big bag of currency. That’s what we’re here for. And the sooner we can make that happen, the better.”

I agreed.
“C’est vrai.”

Dessi flipped open a book—the only book around, my Ramiro Fortunato novel—and started to read. I assumed that our conversation was over.

I looked at the vidscreen. The red light was on. The blue numerals now read 17:30.
Oh my God,
I thought.
Is that all it is?
I felt tears welling up in my eyes. How much longer did I have to wait? Six more hours? I pressed the palms of both hands against my ears until the thrumming of the ambulance engine was replaced by the sound of my own rushing blood. And I concentrated harder than ever on the past.