He drew himself up on his elbows. Hollis was standing by the door. “Sorry. I told her to leave you alone.”
It took Michael a moment to gather himself. He wasn’t used to sleeping so late. He wasn’t used to sleeping at all. “Is Sara here?”
“Gone for hours.” He beckoned to his daughter. “Let’s go—we’re going to be late.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “Daddy’s scared of the sisters.”
“Your daddy’s a smart man. Those ladies make my insides twist.”
“Michael,” said Hollis, “you’re not helping.”
“Right.” He looked at the girl. “Do as your daddy says, sweetheart.”
Kate surprised him with a sudden, forceful hug. “Will you be here when I get back?”
“Sure I will.”
He listened to their footsteps descending the stairs. You had to hand it to the kid. Pure emotional blackmail, but what could he do? He dressed and washed up at the sink. Sara had left rolls for breakfast, but he wasn’t really hungry. He could find something later if he needed to, assuming he actually felt like eating.
He grabbed his pack and headed out.
Sara was finishing her morning rounds when one of the nurses fetched her. She made her way to the reception area to find Sister Peg standing at the desk.
“Sister, hello.”
Sister Peg was one of those people who changed any room she entered, tightening every screw. Her age was anybody’s guess—at least sixty, though it was said that she’d looked exactly the same for twenty years. A figure of legendary cantankerousness, though Sara knew better; beneath the stern exterior was a woman devoted completely to the children in her care.
“Might I have a word with you, Sara?”
Moments later, they were headed to the orphanage. As they drew near, Sara could hear the whoops and cries of children; morning recess was in full swing. They entered through the garden gate.
“Dr. Sara, Dr. Sara!”
Sara didn’t make it five steps onto the playground before the children descended. They knew her well, but part of their excitement, she understood, was the presence of any visitor. She extricated herself with promises to stay longer next time and followed Sister Peg into the building.
The girl was sitting on the table in the little room Sara used for exams. Her eyes flicked up as Sara entered. She could have been twelve or thirteen; it was difficult to tell through the layers of filth. She was wearing a grimy burlap frock, knotted over one shoulder; her feet, blackened with dirt and covered with scabs, were bare.
“Domestic Security brought her in late last night,” Sister Peg said. “She hasn’t spoken a word.”
The girl had been caught trying to break into an ag storehouse. Sara could see why: the girl looked half-starved.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Sara. Can you tell me your name?”
The girl, peering intently at Sara from under the hood of her matted hair, gave no reply. Her eyes—the only part of her body that had yet to move—darted warily to Sister Peg, then back at Sara.
“We tried to find out who her parents are,” Sister Peg said, “but there’s no record of anybody looking for her.”
Sara guessed there wouldn’t be. She removed her stethoscope from her bag and showed the girl. “I’m going to listen to your heart—would that be okay?”
No words, yet the girl’s eyes said she could. Sara slid the knotted side of the frock from her shoulder. She was thin as a reed, but her breasts had just begun to show. At the feel of the cold disk on her skin, the girl flinched slightly, but that was all.
“Sara, you should look at this.”
Sister Peg was staring at the girl’s back. It was covered with burns and lash marks. Some were old, others still weeping. Sara had seen it before, but never like this.
She looked at the girl. “Honey, can you tell me who did this to you?”
“I don’t think she can talk,” Sister Peg said.
Sara had begun to grasp the situation. The girl allowed Sara to hold her chin. Sara moved her other hand beside the girl’s right ear. She snapped her fingers three times; the girl did not react. She swapped hands to test the other ear. Nothing. Looking into the girl’s eyes, Sara then pointed to her own ear and slowly shook her head, meaning no. The girl nodded.
“That’s because she’s deaf.”
Then a surprising thing happened. The girl reached for Sara’s hand. With her index finger, she began to draw a series of lines in Sara’s upturned palm. Not lines, Sara realized. Letters. P. I. M.
“Pim,” Sara said. She glanced at Sister Peg, then looked back at the girl. “Pim—is that your name?”
She nodded. Sara took the girl’s palm. SARA, she wrote, and pointed at herself. “Sara.” She looked up. “Sister, can you get me something to write with?”
Sister Peg departed the room, returning moments later with one of the handheld chalkboards the children used for their lessons.
WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS? Sara wrote.
Pim took the board. She erased Sara’s words with her palm, then gripped the chalk awkwardly in her fist.
—DED
—WHEN?
—MOM THEN DAD LONG TIM
—WHO HURT YOU?
—MAN
—WHAT MAN?
—DONT KNW GOT AWAY
The next question pained her, but it had to be asked.
—DID HE HURT YOU ANYWHERE ELSE?
The girl hesitated, then nodded. Sara’s heart sank.
—WHERE?
Pim took the board.
—GIRLPLACE
Without taking her eyes off the girl, Sara said, “Sister, can you give us a minute?”
When Sister Peg was gone, Sara wrote, MORE THAN ONCE?
The girl nodded.
—NEED TO LOOK. WILL BE CAREFUL.
Pim’s whole body clenched. She shook her head vigorously back and forth.
—PLEASE, wrote Sara. HAVE TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE OK.
Pim took the pad and quickly scribbled, MY FALT PROMISST NOT TO TELL
—NO. NOT YOUR FAULT.
—PIM BAD
Sara didn’t know if she wanted to cry or be sick. She’d seen some things in her life—terrible things—and not just at the Homeland. You couldn’t walk the hospital halls without encountering the worst of human nature. A woman with a broken wrist and an excuse about falling down a flight of stairs, reciting how it had happened while her husband looked on, coaching her with his eyes. An old man with advanced malnutrition dumped at the door by relatives. One of Dunk’s whores, her body ravaged with disease and misuse, clutching a fistful of Austins to rid herself of the baby she was carrying so she could get back on the stool. You hardened your heart because there was no other way to get through the day, but the children were the worst. The children you couldn’t look away from. In Pim’s case, it wasn’t hard to reconstruct the story. Her parents dead, somebody had offered to take the girl in, a family member or neighbor, everyone thinking how kind and generous that person was, to assume responsibility for this poor orphan who couldn’t hear or talk, and after that nobody had bothered to check.
“No, honey, no.” Sara took Pim’s hands and looked into her eyes. There was a soul in there, tiny, terrified, discarded by the world. There wasn’t anybody more alone on the face of the earth, and Sara understood what was being asked of her, just for being human.
Not even Hollis knew the story. It wasn’t that Sara was afraid to tell him; she knew the kind of man he was. But silence was a decision she’d made long ago. At the Homeland, it was said, everybody had taken their turn, and Sara’s had come in due course. She had endured it as best she knew how, and when it was over, she imagined a box, made of steel with a strong lock. Then she took the memory and put it in the box.
She took the board and wrote:
—SOMEBODY HURT ME THERE ONCE TOO.
The girl studied the board with the same guarded expression. Perhaps ten seconds passed. She took up the chalk again.
—SECRET?
—YOU ARE THE ONLY PERSON I EVER TOLD.
The girl’s face was changing. Something was letting go.
Sara wrote: WE ARE THE SAME. SARA IS GOOD. PIM IS GOOD. NOT OUR FAULT.
A film of tears appeared in the surface of the girl’s eyes. A single drop edged over the barrier and spilled down her cheek, cutting a river in the dirt. Her lips were closed; the muscles of her neck and jaw grew taut, then began to quiver. A strange new sound entered the room. It was a kind of growl, like an animal’s. It felt like something fighting to get out.
And then it did. The girl opened her mouth and released a howl that seemed to shatter the very idea of human language, distilling it to a single sustained vowel of pain. Sara wrapped her in a tight embrace. Pim was wailing, shaking, fighting to break free, but Sara wouldn’t let her. “It’s all right,” she said. “I won’t let you go, I won’t let you go.” And she held her that way until the girl was quiet again, and for a long time after.
9
The capitol building, housed in what had once been Texas First Trust Bank—the name was still engraved in the building’s limestone fascia—was just a short walk from the school. A directory in the lobby listed the various departments: Housing Authority, Public Health, Agriculture and Commerce, Printing and Engraving. Sanchez’s office was located on the second floor. Peter ascended the stairs, which opened onto a second open area with a desk, behind which sat a Domestic Security officer in an unnaturally clean uniform. Peter felt suddenly embarrassed to be dressed in his ratty work clothes, carrying a bag full of rattling tools and nails.
“Help you?”
“I’m here to see President Sanchez. I have an appointment.”
“Name?” His eyes had returned to his desk; he was filling out some kind of form.
“Peter Jaxon.”
It was like a light going on in the man’s face. “You’re Jaxon?”
Peter dipped his head.
“Holy smokes.” The man just sat there, awkwardly staring. It had been some time since Peter had gotten this kind of reaction. On the other hand, he rarely met anybody new these days. Never, in fact.
“Maybe you could let somebody know?” Peter said finally.
“Right.” The officer popped from his chair. “Just a second. I’ll tell them you’re here.”
Peter noted the word “them.” Who else would be attending the meeting? For that matter, why was he here at all? In the hours of mulling over the president’s note, he’d come up empty. Maybe it was just as Caleb had suggested and they really
did
want him back in the Army. If so, it was going to be a short conversation.
“You can come right back, Mr. Jaxon.”
The officer took Peter’s tool bag and led him down a long hallway. Sanchez’s door was open. She rose from behind her desk as Peter entered: a small woman with mostly white hair, sharp features, and a strong gaze. A second person, a man with a tight, bristly beard, was seated across from her. He looked familiar, though Peter couldn’t place him.
“Mr. Jaxon, it’s good to see you.” Sanchez stepped around her desk and extended her hand.
“Madam President. It’s an honor.”
“Please,” she said, “it’s Vicky. Let me introduce you to Ford Chase, my chief of staff.”
“I believe we’ve met, Mr. Jaxon.”
Now Peter remembered: Chase had attended the inquest after the destruction of the bridge on the Oil Road. The memory was unpleasant; he’d taken an instant disliking to the man. Compounding Peter’s distrust, Chase was wearing a necktie, the most incomprehensible article of clothing in the history of the world.
“And of course you know General Apgar,” Sanchez said.
Peter turned to see his former commanding officer rising from the couch. Gunnar had aged a little, his clipped hair gone gray, his brow more deeply furrowed. A bit of a paunch stretched the buttons of his uniform. The urge to salute was strong, but Peter held it in check, and the two men shook.
“Congratulations on the promotion, sir.” To the surprise of no one who had served under the man, Apgar had been named general of the Army after Fleet had stepped down.
“I regret it every day. Tell me, how’s your boy?”
“He’s doing well, sir. Thanks for asking.”
“If I wanted you to call me ‘sir,’ I wouldn’t have accepted your resignation. Which is my second-biggest regret, by the way. I should have put up more of a fight.”
Peter liked Gunnar; the man’s presence put him at his ease. “It wouldn’t have done you any good.”
Sanchez led them to a small sitting area with a sofa and a couple of leather armchairs surrounding a low table with a stone top, on which rested a long tube of rolled paper. For the first time Peter had a chance to look at his surroundings: a wall of books, a curtainless window, a chipped desk piled high with paper. A pole stood behind it bearing the Texas flag, the only ceremonial object in the room. Peter took one of the chairs, across from Sanchez. Apgar and Chase sat to the side.
“To begin, Mr. Jaxon,” Sanchez said, “I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you to come see me. I’d like to request a favor. To put this in context, let me show you something. Ford?”
Chase unrolled the paper on the table and weighed down the corners. A surveyor’s map: Kerrville stood at the center, its walls and perimeter lines clearly marked. To the west, along the Guadalupe, three large areas were blocked off with cross-hatching, each with a notation: SP1, SP2, SP3.
“At the risk of sounding grandiose, what you’re looking at it is the future of the Texas Republic,” Sanchez said.
Chase explained, “SP stands for ‘settlement parcel.’ ”
“These are the most logical areas for moving out the population, at least to start. There’s water, arable soil in the bottoms, good land for grazing. We’re going to proceed in stages, using a lottery system for people who want to leave.”
“Which will be a lot of them,” Chase added.
Peter looked up. Everyone was waiting for his reaction.
“You don’t seem pleased,” Sanchez said.
He searched for the words. “I guess … I never really thought this day would come.”
“The war is over,” Apgar said. “Three years without a single viral. It’s what we’ve been fighting for, all these years.”
Sanchez was leaning forward. There was something tremendously attractive about the woman, an undeniable force. Peter had heard this about her—she was said to have been a great beauty in her youth, with a list of suitors a mile long—but it was an entirely different matter to experience it.