The Country of Ice Cream Star (63 page)

‘Foo, you magining dooms. They never done.’

‘Yes, and kill you also,’ he say in rougher voice. ‘Like Femi.’

‘Shee. Marianos kill me, can be. But ain’t for this.’

He shake his head. ‘If you been at Felipe’s yesternight–’

‘Then I protect you better. All that been.’

‘Ice, you ain’t know.’ He grit like pain. ‘Seen this before, in Africa. They hurt you also.’

‘Nay, they ain’t even hurt yourself,’ I say with choking breath. ‘Felipe keep you.’

‘This been one time. It be again.’

‘So we can leave this fool Marias. Do this war, then we skit to some woods. Think Keepers hate you? Any Sengle?’

He take breath to cavil more. But then he only fret his mouth, look past me to the window. ‘I be older, also. Ain’t natural I be there. Cannot explain.’

Here I frustrate, how I got no knowledge I can argue. Never been no thirty years myself. Try to think how it will be, to always be with eights. But it never feeling so with him. We talk like animoses always. Risk our life together, plan our war. All be no sense.

Then he say soft, ‘You still get cure for Driver. Now, ain’t need myself.’

I flinch. Clutch hand into the coaten fur, my throat gone tight. ‘Nay, Pasha. Driver dead. My brother dying yesterday.’

He startle up, look his blue grief to me. Be a moment that we linger in this closer misery, while the snowy rumples of the land be always huge around. Then his eyes pass into shame. He whisper, ‘Be sorry, Ice.’

‘Ain’t need your goddamn sorry!’ I break out in sobben voice. ‘Need you to stay. Ain’t want to live myself, you all be … you all gone. Cannot do this anymore!’

‘Ice?’

‘Ain’t know what I even doing now. The cure, these wars. Why this all been? Be begging, Pasha.’

He reach out then with helpless ruth. I take his hand, cling hard and say, ‘Ain’t let you leave. You mine, you hear this?’

He laugh rough. ‘Your roo. Like Keepers.’

‘Nay, you be my person. You like my other self. Ain’t right you leave. You got to feel this, Pasha.’

‘I feel this. I love you, Ice. But–’

‘Nay. I love you also. Damn, you leaving nowhere. Will not let you.’

I grip tight to his hand. Be thinking madness, how I keep this hand. Ain’t loose it for no circumstance, give him no freedom for
escape. Already begin to worry how I sleep, to think of handcuffs, when he say in unbreath hurt, ‘Will think.’

A gray relief run through me. I say weak, ‘I chase you to these roos, you do no foolishness. I will.’

He make a face. ‘Be sorry for Driver. Sorry I ain’t been.’

‘I look for you. Thought you must be there somehow.’

‘Be there, if I known.’

Then we fall, in sad exhaustions, to our hunting silence. Keep holding hands in thoughtlessness, and stare out at the farming yards of Jersey, their houses few and far. Yo, as we stare, the houses thicken. Become a broken city, scarren black by ancient fires. Its ruins decorate with perfect snow. One street become a brook, grown pale with ice. Ain’t no showing people. Can only see a lonely deer gone nosing in an evac yard. Yo, all this winter got a ghost unbeing from our warm inside.

Be scouting in this wealth of evacs, magining their loot, when something bother in my mind. I look back to Pasha. Find him watching on me sorry. His hand change in my hand, and we both smile.

‘Ho,’ I say, ‘you hearing on their nuclears at Quantico?’

To this, he grimace like bad taste. Before I can react, he rid his hand from mine, stretch out his fingers.

I watch this hand with superstitions, crave to snatch it back. ‘Yo,’ I say nerviose, ‘they wrong to you?’

He shake his head disgusting. ‘Be no nuclears.’

‘Patricia never told you? Got three nuclears there. They losing, Marines explode the city.’

‘Ya, she told. Is lie.’

‘Foo, lie.’ I laugh. ‘How you will know?’

‘Is obvious.’ He shrug annoying.

‘You ain’t even been in Quantico. How it can be obvious?’

Then Pasha start in explanations, how these nuclears cannot be. Best I comprehend, this need some weirdo metals no one have. Must make these metals special, and this need expensive miracles. Nor it be any chance, Marines keep nuclears from the older past. These never last in health. Be only poison garbage now.

‘Think she known, is lies,’ say Pasha at last. ‘They lie to fear the roos. Lie to you also, so you tell the same.’

‘Roos even hear these tales, I wonder?’

‘Hear from prisoners, yes. But ain’t believe.’ He nay his hand. ‘Been nuclears using in Russia, real. We know what this be.’

I think on this a minute, watching on his owlen face. He frowning into nowhere, like he still resent this nuclear lie. Gnaw fretful at his swollen lip.

‘Is better,’ I say uncertain. ‘If we lose, still can escape somehow. Ain’t everyone explode.’

Pasha lose his griping face. Get delicate looks and reach back for my hand. I give it hasty. Get a shiver at his friendly warm.

‘Ice,’ he say soft impressing, ‘you ain’t stay in Quantico?’

‘Stay?’ I shake my head confusing. ‘Now? Why I will stay?’

‘Nor you staying in Marias? You go hide in forest, how we said?’

I laugh uncertain. ‘Nay, you saying this. I never said this.’

‘Said.’ He press my hand until I feel its yester cuts. ‘You mind, we fight one day? Said then.’

‘So, was lies. Ever I said.’ I look nervy out the window. The bosky country start again. Be unleaf forest where the pines among look fat like bears.

‘Now Driver gone …’ He take a difficult breath. ‘Ice, you heeding?’

‘Nay, ain’t heeding. Cannot hide. You know I never done this.’

‘No person blaming, if you hide. Felipe–’

‘Be insane. Is mad as flies. Ain’t need his fool opinions.’

When I look to Pasha again, his face be strict in misery. He swallow hard and say, ‘If roos come to Marias … cannot be safe.’

I say in almost shyness, ‘Nay, be safer, if you only stay. Think all we done, and I be bone. You be my lucky shadow.’

Pasha try to free his hand again, but I cling fast. He startle, then begin to smile. ‘Will think.’

64

BY QUANTICO

We talk ourself into exhausting sleep before the car arrive. Both dozing, topplen clumsy to our windows, when we fetch to stillness. I waken to a camp of tents, all green the same, set neat in rows. Behind–around be forest trees, with evac stores among. Can see, these trees grown up to bigness through some older city.

Around our car, be watching soldiers, dress in dapple clothes. First I see this garb, I think of roos and sit up frightening. But these be blackish children, normal made – Marines of Quantico.

Pasha turn to me with drowsen eyes. ‘Think we walking now.’

‘Yo right.’ I look unnerve around. See where Simón climb from his truck, and I take up my coat.

We step out our different sides. Come in the air of Cember, silvery cold with playing wind, and clap our doors shut with one sound. Around, it be the shushing woods, the bigger sky of life. Sting bright on my cold eyes. Ya, Marines watch curiosity on me, on Pasha Roo.

Simón walk to in dull exhaustion. Say short politeness, then he only stand and rub his eyes. Remember now, he fighting our rebellion yesternight.

Ya, from a forward truck, Patricia climb out, stretching glad. Come striding to us, breathing misty puffs as she approach.

‘Ma’am, sirs,’ she say. ‘We’re picking up a couple folks here. Purposes of getting you to Washington with life and limb.’

Patricia wave three twelves to us – two boys and a girl. These say friendly courtesies, but all be strange to comprehend. Got slur pronouncing, like a hound that try at human speech. The girl say last, ‘If yaw loosen sight of us, keep tight. Idden wort yaw life a guess at a singular step.’ She saying this three ways before we start to understand, we ain’t to move without a Quantico by, to show our safer footing.

Then Patricia form us in a line, a Quantico between each stranger. We go off so, Patricia leading. Shoes already start to fret me as we cross the last safe ground.

First land-mine paths be forest. We pick around the trees in crafty loops, though ain’t no risk to see. Be even squirrels dashing careless. Land mines show nothing to the eye, nor it be no exploding squirrels. Must wonder if these mines be like the nuclears, fables for belief.

We duck into an evac store, go down stairs to a basement room. Its one wall got a blasten hole, lead clear into the dirty ground. This be the starting tunnel of the underlands of Quantico. Marines pause here and turn on handlights. Shine these forward as we step nervy.

Be an earthen burrow with wood supports along the walls. Lead downward through a chill of neary dark. Go ducking here, then we step out into a cold enorme. Ain’t see much in the skittering lights. Is only scant expressions of flashing water, a metal rail, concree. Be one unhappy step in water that seize cold into my shoe. Then we walking normal on loose pebbles.

Quanticos keep pausing here, say, ‘Watcher step.’ Flash their lamp upon some obstacle – a chunky rock, a snaggle of wire – that show like an important ghost in this white spot of light. Last
watcher step
be when we come upon a grandy table object, blocking our forward path. Here we must climb up, myself the clumsiest in heavy fur. On this table, the Quanticos scatter, wander from their finicky line. Patricia call up, ‘Now the gennlemen will give us a ride into Foggy
Bottom, yaw be glad to know. Sit wherever you like, it don’t matter. This cart here’s all safe.’

Then I see in the various lights, the boyish twelves crawl down beside. Seat into some steel devices, fasten along this table. Come slow to my mind, is weirdo bicycles. Be a cart we standing on, these bicycles pull this.

Patricia come beside me, say, ‘Go on and sit. All due respect, those shoes have got to hurt.’

‘Foo,’ I say superstitious. ‘They twelves can move all this?’

‘Don’t you wonder, ma’am,’ the girlish twelve say at my elbow. ‘One dies, we got a hunnert more.’

Be some laughter in the dark, and slurren backtalk I ain’t get. I sit myself obedient. Pasha’s face flash in a passing light as he sit by. Then all these lights extinguish, and the cart creak forward, hitching gentle. Find a breeze, then it coast on.

Cart be longer time in journey, and Pasha start in talking to the girlish twelve – Sharice in naming. In the dark, we all heed soft. Is like an entertainment that they doing for our boredom.

So Pasha say, ‘You living in District or in Arlington?’

‘Living, sir? Well, thass depending.’

‘Depending?’

‘Sir, I think yaw thinking of my position. Thass in the District. Position in the old German Embassy there. But, not bragging but, I did ready some street in Arlington myself.’

‘Ain’t been staying in tunnels?’

‘No, sir, thass for baby children. Lessen we get an air raid. Then we go. Yoller going to see it, at Foggy Bottom where we disembark there. Thass my home shelter there, sir.’

This pass to conversation on these air raids. Sharice explain the warning siren, and the twelves all do an imitation of its howl, echoing queery in the blackness. She tell how they do pack-and-duck – a drill for running to tunnels – in one minute twenty. And times, they go out during raids, to put out fires from bombs. When Pasha ask her if she fearing then, she laugh her scorn.
‘Who you asking
that
? Guessing you don’t know much about Marines.’

While her voice go on, we start to see a gentle light before. First it be a yellow muzziness, feel like a blur mistake. But slow, it sharpen into details. Can see the concree walls, the snaky brightness of the rails we ride on, opening to this light.

Far off, a child call out a muddle word. Patricia answer loud. Then we slow into this lighten place, and be a dozen soldiers waring from a shelf above. As we stop beside, can see these all be petty eights. They all give hand-salues, and stand back tasky seriose.

We climb up to their concree shelf. Be long like inside street. Floor be covern with some thousand mattresses, particular in rows. Ya each mattress tucken, perfect square, with greenish blanket. Look like a decoration to the floor.

Here Patricia halt us, say in loud instruction voice, ‘Going up top now. So please do keep in mind, there is some chance we get an air raid while we’re walking. You hear that siren, you
do not run
. Keep in line, keep your eyes on that person in front, and we go back orderly. Very small chance they hit us. But if you run yourself along that street, you
will
be instant dog food. So hoping you keep that thought foremost.’

She form us back into our line, and we go off again. Be stairs, a rubble floor, and stairs. Come outside, and be surprise that day be waiting normal. Got a fisher sky that promise rain without no storm. Sun be a whiter nudge in hazy cloud.

City beneath this sky be every sort of leering ugliness. Both sides is bricky buildings, seven floors, and all their face be harm. Some walls be torn away, and rooms be showing black within. Is edifices scabben burnt, and places shaggy with dead moss. Windows be a gross confuse of boards and rust barbwire. Here and there among, can see the poking noses of guns, but cannot see no person face behind.

Street self got no roaden skin. Instead, is various trash. This be set in careful patterns – squares and lines and circles, made of pebbles
or broken brick or planks. Ya one nearer patch be bones, and outline all in skulls.

From a bar set high across the road, be three big roadsigns hung. First is English, and it read:

HOW TO SURRENDER
Stop where you are. We can see you.
Put both hands in the air to indicate your intention.
Slowly remove all weapons and drop them in front of you.
Step over them and put both hands on top of your head.
Wait for directions.

This be painten black on yellow, faden with long weather. Next sign be Panish, and the last be rooish, fresh in brighter color. Another sign below, set on a pole like normal streetsign, read: Block I-23 NW – 544 Confirmed Kills. Number on this sign been painten out and rewrit, over–over, is showing lumpy fat.

Patricia look back pologetic. ‘Hope yall excuse the decor. Unnerstanding, I do hope, we get very few invited guests here. Had our share of the other kind, excusing present company.’