The Country of Ice Cream Star (66 page)

My eyes stray to the white-fur roo again. A wind gust sharp, and he clench through his body. White hair blown and blown.

I sigh my breath. ‘Need hats.’

‘Hats?’ The soldier follow my gaze. ‘Well, I guess thass not for me to say.’

‘Ya, gloves. They losing fingers so.’

‘Thass their own choice, ma’am. Like I said.’

‘Nay, how long they keeping here?’

‘See, it’s five days, and they won’t help us at all.’

‘Five days.’ I take a nervy breath. ‘They dying so. Is Cember month.’

‘Don’t think they’ll die. But they do, it’s themselves to thank,’ he say stubborn. ‘Barracks is nice.’

‘Foo.’ I shake my head. Go toward this whitish roo and hunker. Soldier dabbit nerviose behind.

I scout the roo’s face best I can, how he ducking in his collar. Skin be strange like Deema’s, though his face ain’t uggety much. Is only wrinklen fine, and chap from cold. Ya, can see his ear been hurt. Mark redden black with scab.

For a perilous breath, I only know that he ain’t Pasha. Seem worse injustice, how he be a roo, but still ain’t Pasha. Like he only be this
different roo for spite, for selfishness. And in this moment, I remind the murders in the Massa woods. Can know why someone leave him freezing. Beat his ears, do any hurt.

But this pass like chills. It be a child who clench and suffer. And I try their rooish salue, how Pasha teaching me. ‘Privyet.’

A moment, he ain’t stir. But then the child’s white head come up reluctant from his collar. Now can see, his mouth be bruisen fat, like punching injury. Hurt move like speech, but ain’t no sound. He frown and swallow slow.

I roo to him,
What be with you?
But this bring only more bad swallowing. A humor look come in his eyes, and he duck back into his collar. Shut his eyes again.

I stand up shaking somehow. Look to the soldier child where he be frowning disapprovals.

‘Ma’am,’ he say, ‘I don’t think you ought to be doing that. It’s interfering in an ongoing program, see.’

‘Why he cannot talk?’

‘I wouldn’t be in a position. Please.’ His eyes turn blaming to the whitish roo. ‘Ma’am, he’s probably only thirsty.’

‘Thirsty how? Ain’t talk for this?’

‘Well, I’m guessing,’ he say shortish. ‘Said to you, I am not in a position.’

‘Look like you got two hands. Ain’t water nowhere?’

‘Ma’am, I’m going to ask you to leave the area. Please, you can talk to my commanding officer about this in the morning. Colonel Rocher, he’ll be here at eight.’

I look back at this row of huddlen roos, my guts reacting hard. The monument enorme stand over like a god of cold. And I turn without no words, go stalking past the slumpen roos, the flags that stutter on the wind.

It seem like ten forevers before I reach the White House door. Then I go hunting, quick with rage. Will open a door, grope to its light. Switch on a sudden room of golden ornaments and fatty
chairs. Scout quick, then I stalk on. Seek only water in this dry richesse.

At last I open to the cookroom – steely place with metal cabinets covering every wall. Ya, be a sink with faucets. I scratch around the cabinets till I find a jumbo brock, is glassen sort with useful handle. Faucets working right, and I start filling it with colder water. Then I figure better, change for hot.

While this brock fill slow, I go through droars and find a scissor. Fit this in my pocket. And I be breathing gratty, watching the water rising in the brock, when the skree begin.

Be deafen loud. Is like it shrieking huge inside my head. I jump, grip to a table, as the skree go shriller high and hold this shrillness for unbearing lengths. Wail down and rise again, and here at last it recognize. Is warning sirens, how the Quantico twelves sung in the tunnels.

I feel my different sweat of fear, a shivering in my coaten warm. Magine planes and bombs, and my bad nerves be raw, be white.

But I take the brock and hug its heaten weight against my chest. Grit my fear as I go stubborn out.

On the frosten grass, scream fill the air as thick as drowning rain. The cold join to my fright, and I hunch to the brock its warm. All I can think be that old rhyme:
These are the creatures that live in the world, and these are the things they done
. Repeat this like a superstition while I stalk this milen grass. And I be hurrying tense, a sweating detail on the huge blank field, when the explosions come.

Be like neary thunder, trembling loud. It hit again, again, and shudder awful through the ground. Ring in my guts. Soon I be trotting clumsy, water splashing on my coaten arms. I argue to myself, roos never bombing Washington itself. But cannot rid my body fear. Be hunching terrify while these explosions pounding all directions, flash the dull horizon.

Be almost to the monument before I see, the soldier gone. Then cowardesse insist that roos be bombing here. He known and fled. But I force my footsteps onward. Come where the flags be easen loose and
limp, despite all battering noise. The roos be woken now. Tense various, like they guard from different blows. They watch the flashing sky.

One and one, they startle as I come. Look after me with open mouth, as I go without reason to this last white roo. He sitting sharper now, and from his swollen eyes, he look to me with courteose surprise. Is like I be some older friend who visit without expectation.

I kneel to him, feel glad to crouch myself below the noise. No rooish word for drink remember. I only raise the brock. Arms tremble, and a neary explosion shiver the earth beneath my knee. Ya, the roo frown doubtful, like he consider what new punishment this be.

But when I touch it to his mouth, his eyes catch telligence. Then he drink greedy, shutting eyes. Spill some slightish dabble down his chin, and he lick after this. I give him to drink again, and now another roo be shouting, dim into the ever siren. I rise up, heave the brock against my chest. Be breathing hard in nerves and wishing I can hear this breath.

Become a straining task, this ever lifting, ever care. Some roos speak, but any word be mysteries in the noise. The air begin to stank of smoke. Times the sky shock grayish, fickle to orange, then be black the same. Ya, once a clutch of planes tear over and deafen the sirens self. And I keep on, lean toward another whitish face. Tip this aching weight up to a mouth is straining open, feary that it miss its chance. Yo, all they faces be like mistaken tries at Pasha’s face.

Next task be worse, of tearing up my coat. Ain’t no scissors made for cutting fur. Must figure a means to stab into this, rip and scissor and force. Nor I can do this with coat on. Must sit freezing on its tail, work with shivering arms. But at last I cut away a raggity length of sleeve. Carry this to my white-head roo, who watch now curiose. I roo to him,
hands, hands
, and show him how he use this fur. To this, he laugh. When I reach the fur back to his hand, his fingers flinch, but cannot catch. They dumb from cold. Must form his hands inside myself. Hold them in my hands until they warm to better
use. Then his body clench at the returning feeling, sweat his pain. But I rise away, ain’t got no time for sympathies.

And this continue till my mind stray foolish. Be gratty to the bombs that they continue well, give time to work. Wish the sirens quit, and wish these roos quit saying things I cannot hear. Cold take until my selfen hands go stupid, hurt like naked bone. Be breathing smoke sometimes. The sky gone smutten, lose its stars. World burning while I freeze; I shiver bombs and shiver cold.

Ya, in this ever pain, I realize these be prisoners. Be what we trade for cure. Been reasons that they cannot die. Almost, I wish the guard come back, can tell him this with righteous face. But underneath, I know like shame, I save them neverless. Ain’t brave to kill. Ain’t brave for war, ain’t brave.

Then sudden, the noise wail down. The sirens droop their screaming into hush. Explosions gone, and in the quiet left, can hear the rooish gabble. They talking each to each, in louder voices from their deafness. When I give the final child his fur, he roo in dazen curiosity,
What you be?
Be tired for foreign answers, and I only roo,
Ain’t know
.

Then I go walking backen forth. Tuck hands in armpits and stalk quick to wake my warmer blood. So I be pacing, shivering, when that fifteen guard come striding back.

I stop in my footsteps, tense. His face knit in worry, and when he come up near, he say, ‘You was out here through the raid, ma’am?’

‘Sure, can see.’

‘They was looking for you. They–’ He catch his voice. Notice the furry scraps, the brock left empty. ‘Oh. I see you been busy here. Thass … I don’t think that was right to do, ma’am.’

Then I take breath, and he take breath, and we begin to argue.

Skirmish over these fur scraps go on till whisker morning. Guard argue, then he find a child of better rank to argue. And this go on through ranks and hours, while roos watch on joyeuse. Ever an officer leave in rage, they call up cheers together – though I tell them, in
my stumble rooish, this be mally help. Ya, between this bother, I keep skitting to the White House. Take covers from the beds and bring these back with stubborn fury. Wrap the roos from head to foot.

In this last work, I start to roo to them with better luck. When I tell them what Maria be, they gladden entertaining. One child seem ready to believe that I be godly mother. Another offer filthy that he give me better Jesus. All start to call me Masha, and they get some curiosity, how New York fighting now. I say friendly, ‘Yes, all cities here fight now. You Russians finish.’ They answer back with laughing insult – and we interrupt again by some new angry Quantico.

Last come the Commandant himself. He start in sadder disapprovals, how they all been seeking me. Was fearing I run to the land mines, skitty from all bombs. He bring a coat – a grayish object, sizen for a bigly male. Settle this around me fussing, and he beckon me some steps apart, to talk in privacy.

He say, ‘We all was thinking, ma’am … not going to say we stop our interrogations. These boys stay right here. But if you want to bring them water, basic needs – well, it’s possible we accept that. We’d only ask, you put that to some use. Thing is, you got a good start here. It’s every chance, these boys will trust you. So if you could get them talking, ask some questions we provide you with …’

‘Ho, be spying?’

He make stubborn face. ‘Can’t always have perfect honesty in a war. I know your religion maybe tell you thass a sin–’

‘Foo sin.’ I laugh up soft. ‘Sure I do spying. Be no problems.’

‘Well, thass fine.’ His face ease softer. ‘And any information you get, we all be thankful. But our main priority there. I know Patricia told you about our nuclear program. Now, the problem we got, the Russians are determined to find that out the hard way.’

‘They ain’t believe.’ I nod unthinking.

‘Yeah, thass it. Now, these are all men of higher rank here. Why they’re assets. So, expecting they do go home sometime … 
it’s paramount they go back with the right information. The Russians have got to know, there is no victory here. There’s no good ending.’

I think to ask if nuclears be fables, or is real. But I got no strength for more disturbances this hour. So I only say, ‘Be right. I try.’

‘Well, I am grateful, ma’am. Hoping you appreciate that we all want to make this work.’ The Commandant sigh, frown to the roos, like he guess what I see in them. A moment, his face be only sad in worrying. Then he flinch hard. ‘Ma’am – you took those blankets from the White House?’

I shrug. ‘Ain’t known no other place to rob.’

‘Rob,’ he say in thinner voice. ‘Thass nice.’

‘Need hats. What they need most.’

Roos watch back with nerviose disliking in their eyes. Look sorry in their shamble wrappings, various with flowers or stripes. Can see they worry, why I ain’t fight with this newer child. Be thinking how I say in rooish,
I ain’t bandon you
, when the Commandant say grim, ‘Goddamnit, I’m standing here, and the Russians are coming into Arlington again. That’s what that bombing was. This – well, this could work. But it wadden a thing we appreciate much, and you are not very popular with my people this morning. Now, I expect you to return those blankets where you found them, and anything else you
robbed
. And I’ll ask you to show more maturity, from now on. I hope thass clear!’

Then he turn sharp and stalk away. Unhelpful roos call out a cheer of mockery to his back.

THE WAR AT QUANTICO

Cember 26–January 6

67

MY WAR BEGIN

Time be fickle objects, and perverse to any wish. A glad week vanish as it born. Ya, a misery hour will stick and grow, and cannot rid. So, when I counting after, my time in Quantico been eleven days. But when it live, it seeming years of loneliness.

My Sengles keep in far Marias, safe from any roos. Been my own wish, but still I miss them worse than fear expect. Always I forget that they ain’t by, expect them in my want. Will save treats for my greedy eights; remember rooish words for Keepers; will think, when night be darkening, my children wait for me. Cannot learn they gone. Pain never lose its first surprise.

Yo, be frustrations, how my Mariano soldiers ain’t arrive. Always be in conscience that the NewKing coming with – but days go past, and they still marching slow and slow by hidden roads. Get fantasies where the NewKing ridden fast ahead of every troops; step in my White House room like natural rights, and lock the door behind. Then it seem impossibilities, that he ain’t here. Each petty day seem like a wrong eternity.

And I watch the flash of bombs and think of Pasha by the roos. Must suffer on his treachery; guess how he kill my selfen people, like his mally tales. But cannot magine this correct – like ever when I attempt to know his crimes, my mind be blank and strange. Will start with blame, but always end with my same loneliness.

*

My most relief be small participations in the war. For this, I must insist like ten damnations. Quanticos want me in no risk – but I ain’t grown to be some pamper queen, use feet for only holding shoes. So, after houry threats and brawls, they give me runner task of bearing messages to Arlington.