Authors: Mark Souza
“For everyone’s sake, tell me you are getting off at the next stop,” a man called.
Another said, “Someone forget to rinse the test tube before they made your baby?”
She looked down at her brown replica, drew it into her chest protectively and covered it with a blanket. The man who woke her shoved the man who had insulted her replica. “Knock it off,” he warned. And that’s when she realized she was starting to think of the replica as real.
When the train pulled into Belmont Station, she got off though it wasn’t her stop. Before stepping onto the landing, she thanked the woman who gave up her seat and the big man who had defended her. She took a seat on a bench on the landing and waited for the next tube. She stared at the doll and thought about the snide remark. Would her baby be as dark? How often would her daughter hear the same insult? How often would she come home crying? She wondered if she had made a mistake selecting their child. She wanted the best of both of she and Moyer, but was what she considered best actually the best for her daughter?
Friday, 2 February
At Digi-Soft, sixty test subjects filed into a conference room while Moyer and Petro watched from behind a pane of one-way glass. Louis Berman stood behind them, his face reflected in the window, his hungry wolf eyes surveying the scene as if it was a caribou migration. The subjects were an even mix of men and women, all wearing loose, blue, short-sleeved, pullover tops with matching pants and slippers, which seemed odd to Moyer. Was it some sort of uniform?
“Are the subjects volunteers?” Moyer asked.
“Of a sort,” Berman replied.
“What’s that mean?”
Berman beamed. “They’re prisoners. They get the remaining years of their sentences commuted for volunteering.”
The idea was Berman’s and he thought himself clever to have come up with it. To Moyer, Berman’s cleverness meant more work. It meant he and Petro would have to be far more diligent in the pretest interviews to assure the subjects weren’t mentally ill. With such a small sample size, a few flawed subjects could seriously skew results.
Moyer looked the subjects over. They all seemed so normal. When Moyer thought of prisoners, he assumed violence. His expectation was that many would be aggressive and muscular to cope with the threats and rigors of prison life. Instead, the group appeared to have walked in from a social club. Only unadorned ill-fitted blue prison uniforms hinted that it wasn’t so.
They entered through the door in an orderly line, found seats, and sat quietly. Moyer turned to Petro. “Let’s get on with this.” Berman took the signal as his chance to leave and headed back to his office.
The low murmur in the room hushed as Moyer and Petro entered. Moyer placed his electronic tablet on a small desk and faced the subjects. His eyes caught on an attractive woman in the front row and he lost all sense of what he planned to say. She sat defiantly, legs crossed, arms folded over her chest, cynical eyes sizing him up. Her beauty was startling. Fair skin, jet black hair cut in a bob, square jaw, high full cheeks and cleft chin. But it was the intensity in her dark eyes that froze Moyer.
Petro nudged him with an elbow, and Moyer began his introduction. “Uh, I’m Moyer Winfield. This is my colleague Petro Martinez.” Petro bowed. “We will be questioning you one at a time. It will be a long, boring day for everyone. Please be patient.” A central aisle between sections of seats split the room from front to back. “I will interview those on the right half of the room, Mr. Martinez the left.”
“Bastard!” Petro whispered, “You did that on purpose. Couldn’t we have thumb wrestled for her?”
Moyer tried to suppress a grin. “Maybe next time,” he muttered.
He pointed at the woman in the front row. “You first. Bring your file.”
Moyer led the way to a small unadorned room intended for side meetings. Inside, a pair of plastic chairs sat tucked under a small table. Moyer tapped his tablet and opened her file. “Anna Bonderenko. Is that Miss or Mrs.?”
“It’s Anna. If you are hunting for a date, I’m single, though it could be a while before I'm available.”
Moyer felt heat rise from his chest to his cheeks and knew he was blushing. It had been years since someone flirted with him.
“It says here you’re thirty-two and a college professor.”
“I’m thirty-one. My birthday isn’t until next month.”
“That seems young for a professor.”
Her wistful smile expressed a mix of pride and weariness at perhaps having heard it too often. “What did you teach?” Moyer asked.
“English literature.”
Moyer flipped through the pages of the file. “Why are you in prison?”
Her dark eyes went glacier cold. She eased back in the chair and folded her arms. “I taught unapproved curriculum.”
“What does that mean?”
“I taught from banned books.”
“Really, which ones?”
“
1984
, by George Orwell, for one. Have you read it?”
“No,” Moyer admitted. Not all banned books were treated equally. Some were considered little more than an annoyance. Others,
1984
among them, carried stiff prison terms for those who possessed them.
“What a pity.”
“Have you ever read Steinbeck?”
Anna rolled her eyes. “A superbly gifted author who rarely took on bigger issues, with one exception. Have you ever read
The Winter of Our Discontent
?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“You should before it gets banned too.”
Moyer flipped Anna’s file to the questionnaire and typed in Anna Bonderenko’s name at the top. “Are you in good health?”
“Yes.”
“Have you or a family member ever been treated for mental illness?”
“No, not that I know of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means not that I know of. No one was ill that I remember, but then I wasn’t in everyone’s business, and mental illness isn’t something you spout off about at family get-togethers.”
Moyer checked the box labeled
NO
.
“Are you on any medication?”
“No.”
Moyer pulled up a file on his tablet. “I’m going to show you a series of images and I want you to tell me what you see.”
Anna looked cynical. Moyer brought up the first black and white image and turned his tablet to face Anna.
She crinkled her nose. “Rorschach? Does anyone use that anymore?”
“Miss Bonderenko, you are here to participate in testing, not criticize the test methods. Please watch the screen and describe what you see.”
Her eyes blazed and jaw muscles tightened. After a few moments she turned her attention to the ink blot, and studied the blob intently, cocking her head to one side as if more meaning could be garnered from the change in perspective.
“I see it now. It’s a man and a woman. She’s standing over him having plunged a knife into his chest. Behind them is a toilet and it’s plainly obvious that he’s left the seat up again.” She flashed a smile. “I guess he had it coming.”
Moyer stifled a laugh. He regained his wits, put a neutral expression on his face and recorded her response.
Anna’s brow pinched as if she was confused by Moyer’s reaction. “Hey, they’re your pictures,” she said, “I’m simply calling a spade a spade. Kind of kinky if you ask me.” She reached across the table and touched Moyer’s hand. Moyer flinched as if he’d been electrocuted. A sly smile softened her expression. “I don’t bite. I’m just playing with you. It looks like a bird.”
Moyer scratched out Anna’s first answer and let out a frustrated sigh. “Miss Bonderenko, how much time remains on your sentence?”
“Eight years.”
“And how important is the reduction in sentence to you? Do you want out of this program?”
“No, please,” she pleaded. “I’m sorry about before. I’ll do whatever you want. I can’t do eight more years.”
A cold veil fell over Anna. The flirting was over, the fire gone from her eyes. Moyer immediately regretted jerking back the reins so brutally. How long had it been since she’d been able to flirt or be in the company of a man, even a married one? How long since she’d discussed her passion for literature? It was cruel to wield as heavy a weapon as her freedom for the sake of test data.
“You know the real irony?” she said. “They’ll never let me teach again. What kind of life will I have, really? And the truth is I am still the person they arrested four years ago. It’s only a matter of time before they arrest me again for something else. They'll never let me free because they think I'm a threat.”
By day’s end, Moyer had eliminated only two candidates, and Petro one. As they talked, Moyer expressed his surprise at the nature of the crimes the subjects were imprisoned for. “They were so normal. Beforehand, I was terrified. I pictured being alone and defenseless with violent savages. Most of the subjects I saw were in for debts, or contrary political beliefs.”
“It was the same for me,” Petro said. “The one person I eliminated was due to depression related to being imprisoned. Ironic, huh? I felt horrible for kicking him out.”
Monday, 5 February
Robyn leaned against the wall next to Moyer observing the other couples arrive for class. Her back ached from work and Moyer appeared ready to fall asleep on the spot. All the overtime was taking a toll on him.
Mrs. Wagstaff’s face was more dour and determined than ever. She paced at the front of the classroom still clad in her coat while she eyed the clock. Eve Ganz was last to arrive, alone again, as was her habit. She settled in beside Robyn. Mrs. Wagstaff cast a disapproving glare at both of them.
“I don’t expect Mrs. Wagstaff will extend me an invitation to lunch when this is all over,” Eve said. Robyn tried to stifle a laugh and snorted.
Mrs. Wagstaff cleared her throat to quiet the class. Behind her was a screen, a simple metal frame fitted with white fabric. She pushed it aside to reveal a selection of carriages and baby carriers and announced, “We are going on a field trip.”
Couples timidly advanced toward the pile. Robyn hurried to assure she’d get a carriage. She didn’t care what the other couples thought, her back hurt and she’d be damned if she’d carry that heavy anchor of a plastic doll around town strapped to her shoulders.
She latched onto the only Glider model stroller in the bunch and wheeled her prize to the far side of the room. She swaddled her doll and placed it inside. Then she nestled a knitted cap on its head, sure that if she didn’t, Mrs. Wagstaff would castigate her in front of the class again.
“We will be seeing a pediatrician to learn baby first aid,” Mrs. Wagstaff announced.
It was a brisk winter night. The class followed their instructor to the nearest tube station bunched in small groups based on friendships built during classes, with the exception of the Perezes who walked alone. They were laborers taking a class in the wrong part of town. Robyn thought of asking them to join her, Moyer and Eve. They did have being outcasts in common, but she didn’t feel comfortable offering.
She listened to the conversations nearby. A small clutch of women discussed what they had heard concerning infant nutrition from other mothers and documentaries. They blathered on and on about it. Robyn rolled her eyes at Eve, eliciting a commiserating grin.
The three of them sat together on the same bench waiting for the tube to arrive. Moyer nodded off moments after sitting down. Robyn set the brake on the carriage so she could talk to Eve without worrying about it rolling away.
A boisterous group of people descended the station steps. They were young and trendy and looked to be returning from a party in high spirits, happy, talking, and laughing.
Robyn remembered when she and Moyer used to go out on weekends, before the baby stole all their money, before scrimping bludgeoned the joy from their relationship. The group settled onto the platform seemingly oblivious to the presence of Mrs. Wagstaff’s class. They discussed a new band, stole occasional glances down the track.
A woman with an easy smile tapped Robyn on the shoulder. She was tall and blond, wearing the latest fashion, the type of clothes Robyn used to wear. In fact, she could have been Robyn’s twin in her college days.
“Do you know when the next train is coming?” the woman asked.
“It should be along any minute. Say, is your dress a Terrilyn Picci?”
The woman’s smile brightened. “Yes it is.” Her dress had no corporate logos. She was young and free and probably had a good job. Robyn’s blouse carried a small Bixby’s logo. As a result, it was 20% cheaper, and as logos went, it wasn’t so offensive. It told the world she was a mother, or mother-to-be. Sure, pretenders often wore Bixby logos too, but she knew she wasn’t a pretender this time and there were worse advertisements to be branded with.
“I love her stuff. I used to wear a lot of it back in the day,” Robyn said.
Mrs. Wagstaff roared from across the platform. “Mrs. Winfield, what are you doing?”
Robyn froze for a moment then snapped her head toward her instructor. Moyer jerked awake beside her. His eyes fluttered as he struggled to awareness, confused over where he was.
“Where is your baby?”
“It’s –” Robyn checked inside the carriage. It was empty. She searched for the blond woman. She was gone as well, and so were her companions. She turned to face Mrs. Wagstaff, a stunned expression on her face.
Mrs. Wagstaff scowled. “The world is filled with baby thieves. If you won’t care for your child, someone else will.” Mrs. Wagstaff sidled up to Robyn’s empty carriage. “What did Mrs. Winfield do wrong, class?”
“She allowed herself to be distracted,” Mrs. Monroe offered.
“Yes,” Mrs. Wagstaff said. Her face bore a smug grin Robyn wished she could slap away. “A parent must be ever vigilant. Danger lurks everywhere. What else?”
“She used a carriage,” Mrs. Everett said.
“Correct. Carriages are for decoys only. The cautious mother uses a papoose carrier so her baby is strapped to her body and much harder to steal. Now as many of you may have guessed, today’s class is not on baby first aid. It’s about security.”