Aftertime (25 page)

THE NEOPHYTES WERE YOUNG, SUNTANNED,
wholesome girls and skinny, hollow-eyed beauties, nails chewed to the quick, their colored and highlighted hair giving way to several inches of natural-colored roots.

But there were a few older women, some her mother’s age, and at least one who looked like she was pushing seventy. They fussed over the younger women, passing them dishes and refilling their water, chiding them to eat, to relax, to rest. Cass wondered how many of them had been separated from their own children, had lost them to disease or to the Beaters.

“Welcome, Cassandra,” Adele said with a smile, lifting her glass in a toast. Monica clinked it with her own and winked. Before she could lift her own glass to the others, there was the squeal of feedback from a loudspeaker, and a tall, slender, silver-haired woman dressed in scarlet approached the platform. Silence fell quickly. The servers paused in their tasks, and heads were bowed and hands folded in supplication.

“That’s Mother Cora,” Monica whispered.

Mother Cora closed her eyes and tilted up her chin, smiling faintly. “Let us pray,” she said, and the sound system picked up her well-modulated voice and carried it with surprising clarity through the stadium. All around her the women joined hands; Monica and Adele held hers and reached across the empty seats to the others. Mother Cora raised her hands slowly above her head in an elegant arc, inhaled deeply and began to speak, women’s soft voices falling in with hers in a low susurration that filled the stadium and echoed back upon itself.

“Lord our Savior,” her prayer began, “we, your Chosen, commend this and every day to Thee.”

What followed was not so different from the prayers Cass remembered from her occasional forays into church, and she stopped paying attention to the words and instead sneaked glances at all the other women who were praying over clasped hands. She thought she would see at least a few others who, like her, were not able to lose themselves in prayer, who were not moved. Those who lacked faith, or who had been lost, or had turned away from God. Those whose suffering had changed them at the core, stealing pieces of the soul and leaving carved-out shadows in their place.

But as she searched the neat rows of women, they became indistinguishable from one another, their variations in shape and size and hair and skin color insignificant, forming a whole that was more than the sum of the individuals, pulsing with a life of its own. All the voices made one voice; all the clasped hands formed a chain that stretched from the old to the young, the weak to the strong. In that moment Cass felt the tug of the Order, the desire to lose herself, to become nothing more than another voice sharing in the prayer, if only she knew the words.

The echoes of
Amen
rebounded around the vast space, now nearly dark except for candles on the tables and a few strings of electric lights. Mother Cora descended the stairs and the spotlight shut off, and conversation picked up again.

“Hope you’re not expecting much,” Monica said, as servers placed steaming plates in front of each of them and poured water from pitchers.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Well that’s good, since everything around here’s pretty much inedible.”

“Don’t complain so much,” Adele chided. “
You
didn’t have to cook it.”

“I’d rather be cooking than suffering through Purity lectures,” Monica said. “Seriously, Cassandra, if you haven’t sworn off sex already, listening to Sister Linda talk about your vessel of virtue will knock the urge right out of you.”

“I’m—um, you can call me Cass.” It was happening again, as it had at the communal bath at the school—the kindness of other women, the offer of friendship. But Cass didn’t have the energy to engage.

“Don’t mind Monica,” Adele said. “She’s got a good heart, she’s just not used to following directions.”

“I’m spoiled,” Monica shrugged. “Only child, what can I say?”

“Monica’s going to do great things here, if she doesn’t get herself thrown out first,” Adele said firmly.

“Adele’s the only one who hasn’t given up on me yet,” Monica said. “I guess I’m the problem child around here.”

“You just need to apply yourself a little,” Adele said, and Cass saw a woman who needed a child to mother—a woman who once had children of her own to dote on, and was lost without them.

“Are there children here? Babies, little kids?”

She had to know. Just had to know if Ruthie had made it safely. She had failed her little girl, but Bobby had saved her, Elaine had nursed her, and someone else had brought her here. Cass had failed, but Ruthie had survived so much already. If she was being raised here, in the Order, that would be all right. As long as they were keeping her safe.

There was a pause, Adele’s face draining of life and looking, suddenly, much older. When she spoke, her voice was soft and shredded as a tissue that had gone through the wash.

“The innocents have their own quarters. We don’t see them much, after the baptisms.”

“I’ve never seen any since I got here,” Monica said, licking the back of a spoon. “And that’s fine with me because I think it would freak me out. They don’t let them talk. Can you imagine? My nieces and nephews never
stopped
talking.”

“That’s just for the ceremony,” Adele murmured, but the energy had gone out of her words. “It’s all symbolic, the way they prepare them. It’s to make them all uniform so they’re like blank slates, ready to accept the doctrine. Monica…I’m sure they let them just be kids, when they’re in their own quarters.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Monica shrugged. “I’m just saying, it’s pretty freaky that they—”

“You
don’t know,
” Adele snapped. “And it’s best not to speculate. It’s not your place.”

Despite her sharp tone, Cass saw tears welling in her eyes. There was a silence, as Monica ducked her chin in regret. “I’m sorry, Adele,” she said softly, covering the older woman’s hand with hers.

Adele sighed and dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “It’s all right, sugar. But you don’t need to worry about it. The children are being cared for so the rest of us can focus on our own spiritual growth. I mean, really, it’s better, it’s easier this way. Without the distractions.”

Cass knew when someone was lying to herself—that was a skill every recovering addict had in spades—and Adele was working hard to believe she didn’t want to be around children. Monica was part of that work, allowing Adele to mother someone while pretending she was indifferent to the youngest members of the Order.

Cass could do that, too. She could convince herself she didn’t need to see Ruthie, to hold her, if only she knew that she was being cared for. Cass didn’t deserve any more, not after she’d been so careless. She just needed to know her baby was safe.

“So this isn’t too bad, right?” Adele asked, clearing her throat and forcing a smile. “I mean, for Aftertime.”

“Yeah, sure,” Cass said, though she’d barely touched her food, a stir-fry of kaysev leaves with a few grains of barley and herbs and bits of jackrabbit meat. “I’m just…I’m not that hungry. I guess all the excitement, and all—”

Monica rolled her eyes. “I know, more excitement than a person can stand. Deacon Lily gave you the grand tour, right? Only I bet they didn’t show you any of the stuff they don’t want you to see.”

“Monica,” Adele scolded her. “You’ve got to stop being so disrespectful. You’re going to get us all in trouble again.”

Monica managed an apologetic smile, showing a tiny gap between her front teeth. “I’m sorry, Adele. I really am. Only I don’t understand why no one ever stands up to them.”

“It’s not
everyone,
” Adele said, shaking her head in exasperation. “Honey, you need to understand that every organization has its bad apples. But you still have to show some respect.”

“Cass, it was so ridiculous. No one has a sense of humor around here.”

“What happened?”

“I forgot how this one prayer ended and I kind of made up my own verse in chapel. Mother Cora was
not
amused, and my ladies here all had to attend extra prayers because of me.” Monica inclined her head toward the women at the other end of the table. “They’re still kind of mad. That’s why we’re all alone at the bad girl end of the table.”

“Well, honey, we missed tea,” Adele said, patting her arm. “Can’t get between the ladies and an afternoon snack, even if it is dandelion tea and rabbit salad sandwiches.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“You need to take it more seriously,” a woman two seats down said. Cass hadn’t realized she’d been listening. “Next time it’s gonna be a reckoning. You’ve already had what, like three warnings?”

“Two,” Monica mumbled.

“Okay, two,” the woman said. “Third one’s a reckoning.”

“What’s a reckoning?” Cass asked.

“Don’t listen to them,” Monica protested. “All I ever do is say what everyone is already thinking. There’s no way they’d call a reckoning without more to pin on me than that.”

“But what’s—”

“Hush,”
the woman down the table hissed, as a deacon in deep lavender walked slowly past their table. Conversation died down until she was safely out of hearing range.

“Damn spy,” Monica muttered. “Like to see where
that’s
in the Bible. Especially when they’re up there preaching faith, it would be nice if they had a little faith in—”

This time it was a different woman who interrupted. “Come on, Monica, can we please get through one single meal without you getting us in trouble?”

“Why’re you even here if you’re not a believer?” another added. All the other neophytes were turned toward them now.

“I
am
a believer,” Monica protested hotly. “I’d put my faith up against anyone else’s any day. I just don’t believe in this crazy shit that masquerades as, as
real
faith.”

But she kept quiet until the meal was finished and servers had cleared the dishes. Cass answered Adele’s questions with a mixture of the truth—her job at the QikGo, her love of plants and landscaping—and lies and omissions. Lily had been right—the food helped, and by the time they filed out of the darkened stadium, their way lit only by the stars and the strings of tiny lights, her head had cleared, and the terrifying memories had receded back into the recesses of her mind.

BUT IN THE MORNING SHE AWOKE FROM THE
dream of Ruthie again. Ruthie pressed beneath her, the snuffling wailing of the Beaters coming closer, her own screams ringing in her ears—she jerked awake in a twist of sheets sour with her own sweat, salt riming her eyelashes so that she knew she’d cried in her sleep.

For a moment she didn’t remember where she was. The light in the neophyte dorm was ashy, filtered through burlap tacked along the top of the enclosure, which had been constructed from a length of the stadium’s concrete corridor.

Only the neophytes were kept locked in. Lily, who had escorted her to the dorm after dinner, explained that once they became acolytes they would join the others, groups of women sharing quarters created from what had been restaurants and club rooms and offices and even—for the ordained—the skyboxes. They would be allowed to keep clothes and personal possessions—books, keepsakes, toiletries—in their rooms. But for now everything was common property.

“It builds a sense of community,” Lily explained, showing her the shelves of towels and kaysev shoots carved into toothbrushes and the rough soap made from the oily center of kaysev beans. No doubt the manufacture of these supplies was part of what kept the convent humming with industry, but it served another purpose, too—preparing for the day when everything from Before ran out.

As the neophytes lined up for the two crude bathroom enclosures, acolytes brought buckets brimming with water and took away tubs heaped with dirty laundry before locking the doors for the night. To Cass’s surprise they were allowed to wear whatever they wanted to sleep in, everything from Giants T-shirts to lacy nightgowns, but she had nothing but the clothes she was wearing.

She rubbed sleep from her eyes and looked around the empty room, surprised that she’d slept through the others’ departure. Most of the beds were neatly made. Her bed was separate from the others, tucked into a corner. The newcomer bed, where Lily explained she would sleep for the first few transitional days. Next to it was a hardback chair and a small table on which a stapled set of pages rested. They were well-thumbed, the edges curling, and they looked as though they’d been typed on an old manual typewriter.

“You’ll have two days to rest before you join the others for daily chores and study,” Lily had said when she showed them to Cass. “Mother Cora likes for newcomers to spend time in reflection. And reading these.”

There were hundreds of pages, single-spaced. “Who wrote all of this?”

“The founders. Mother Cora did a lot of it.” Lily looked uncomfortable. “You can, you know, skim some of the parts. You’ll take your meals here until you’re done. Just try to think of it as room service.”

On the table next to the pages was a plate holding a thin, flat seeded kaysev cake and six almonds, and a tall glass of clear water. Cass put the glass to her lips and drank slowly, feeling the water wash down her throat, lukewarm but clean, the best she’d tasted Aftertime.

She ate her breakfast and washed herself as well as she could. After that, there was nothing left to do but pick up the pages.

Cass read the first page three times before giving up. The words refused to come together in her mind, the paragraphs swimming before her eyes.

Somewhere, not far away, the children of the Order were being cared for. Fed and clothed and sheltered and kept safe. That was more than Cass had ever accomplished. Much more than she’d managed already, and she’d only had Ruthie back in her care for a single day—a day in which she’d let her be bitten, infected, and nearly taken. A day that had caused her girl untold pain as she turned, then reverted, then healed in that small library room.

Cass tossed the pages on the table and lay back in her bed, pulling the sheet up over her head. Her breath fouled the air under the sheet, and she pulled her arms and legs in tight and made herself as compact as she could. She squeezed her eyes shut and wondered if, in here, her prayers might actually work.

The prayer she would say, if she allowed herself, was the old one, and for that reason Cass knew it was a bad idea. It was the prayer from when she drank. On mornings like this, in beds not dissimilar, Cass breathed her own stink and reviled her own body and prayed only for God to let her forget—the things she had done, the things she had lost, the things she would do tonight. It was not a prayer of hope.

Someone would come, eventually. She had managed to sleep through the other neophytes washing and dressing and preparing for their day, but she would not be so lucky again. She would be expected to study, to eat, to make conversation. Cass had come here with hope and something even better—with thoughts of Ruthie dancing like diamonds in her mind, never far from her thoughts. But that was gone now. Yesterday, as Lily’s kind voice stirred the silt from her memories, she had remembered.

And remembering stole her resolve. Cass wanted to be Ruthie’s savior, but she was the one who had forsaken her.

She wanted to be Ruthie’s everything, but she deserved nothing.

Cass pressed her face to the mattress and felt her tears hot against the cotton. She pressed harder, harder, until she couldn’t breathe, and wished she could stay that way until the last of her life left her.

But her body was a traitor, and as she willed the air from her lungs and her mind went black at the edges, she knew that eventually it would seize deep drafts of air to sustain life, a gift she no longer wanted.