Authors: Pamela Sargent
Simon turned to her, his mouth open. She looked out the window, unable to face him. "If you like," Takaishi's voice continued, "you can ride up to Washington and get off there, but at your age you might get conscripted. I advise you to get off in Baltimore with the others and join a convoy. You'll be safer."
Three young women passed the window, trailed by a figure in denim. Aisha saw the scarred face in profile and gasped, shrinking back against the seat.
Maudine was looking at her strangely. "What's the matter?"
"Ortega's out there," Aisha whispered. Maudine sat up. "I don't think she saw me." The brown-haired woman peered out cautiously from behind the torn red curtain.
Werner rose slowly, taking out his revolver. "I'd better go take care of it," he murmured.
"No," Aisha cried. "It doesn't matter now."
Even Maudine seemed worried. She held Takaishi's arm. "There’ll be trouble, Werner."
He shook his head. "For another pearl, that guard will cover for me. Don't worry."
"Don't go," Aisha pleaded.
"I have to," he replied. "I can't let her get on this train. Others might be hurt. Besides, I was asked to do a job. I said I would. If I have the chance, I have to try and keep my word." His mouth twisted. "You see, Aisha, that's the story I tell myself." He pushed open the compartment door and went out.
Aisha jumped to her feet. Barron was in front of the door, blocking her way. "Let me out." She reached under his arm and pulled at the door.
"Sit down, Aisha."
"Let me out!" Her head pounded. She clasped her hands together and swung, knocking him aside. He grabbed for her leg, and she kneed him in the chest. He gasped in surprise, crumpling into the seat. She pulled the door open and was in the corridor. She shoved past an old man and ran to the end of the car. She clattered down the metal steps and almost fell against the guard. He threw out an arm, thrusting her away.
The train whistle ahead blew. The platform was nearly empty. Ortega stood by the next car, holding a ticket, her back to them. Takaishi approached her, almost halfway there, gun pointed. Ortega turned slightly, shifting her weight. Takaishi raised his arm. Ortega lifted her chin, glancing toward him. She stepped back. He fired. She staggered, her hand at her side, a bloodstain blotting her denim shirt. He fired again. She fell to her knees, her gun in her hand, and shot. Takaishi was diving to one side. He seemed to hang in the air for a moment before he crashed to the platform. Ortega sprawled, arms stretched out alongside her head, and was still.
Takaishi turned over on his back. A red stain was spreading rapidly over his shirt. The train screeched again. Aisha pushed past the guard and ran to him. She knelt near him, holding his head. "Werner," she said. He looked at her calmly. "Werner." She slid an arm under his shoulders. "I'll help you on the train, Simon can fix it, you'll be fine."
The guard was standing beside her, Barron next to him. The blond man looked down at his friend sadly. "Get on the train, Aisha," Takaishi murmured. "It's going to leave soon."
"I won't go without you," she said fiercely, clinging to him.
"You have to. If you don't, it's all for nothing. You see that, don't you? Reach inside my pocket. Not that one, the other one."
She reached in and pulled out five pearls. "That's all that's left of the pearls, so you keep them. I always thought they looked better on you than rubies anyway. Now go with Barron and get on the train."
Barron leaned over and took her arm. "No," she said.
"Look," Takaishi went on, "I'm finished."
She choked. Barron pulled her up, dragging her to the train. He lifted her to the steps and climbed in after her. The guard swung aboard as the train began to move. Aisha stood on the steps, clinging to the railing as they passed Takaishi; two policemen and a railroad official were running toward him. Aisha lifted a hand. The wheels screeched as they passed Ortega's lifeless form.
Barron took her hand. "Come on," he said. "We have to go home."
TWELVE
Ildico Hannes
Simon stood under the oak tree, shivering in his sheepskin coat. The sky was clearing; patches of blue appeared above the thick gray clouds. The snow had melted, the weather would grow warmer—in two months, it would be summer. He jammed his blistered hands into his pockets. He wasn't used to this climate any more. He had arrived here from Florida just in time for the cold fall weather. Before he could get used to that, winter had come, afflicting him with a cold that had hung on for almost the entire season. His head ached; he was still having trouble with his sinuses.
He watched the line of mourners winding down the hillside. They had come from miles around—farmers, a few army officers, a few scholars—to pay their respects to René. Simon stood next to the grave, which he had dug, remembering the old man. René had let him stay here for the same reason he had once allowed him to be arrested; because it was less trouble than the alternate course of action.
The last mourner left, a farmer in a woolly black coat, shook hands with Ildico Hannes and departed, bobbing up and down as he shuffled down the hill. Juan Jones snickered and turned to follow him, imitating the farmer's odd walk.
The arrival of the mourners for this funeral was, Simon knew, only courtesy. A more important event had taken place a month ago, witnessed by several farmers, two army officers from the nearby base, and two university scholars. Simon had witnessed it too, though he'd had to lurk by René's bedroom door to watch. The old man had drawn up a document giving control of the farm to Ildico. He had signed it Ildico had made her mark, a bold X; the others had added their signatures. Later, Ildico had posted the document in the alcove outside René's door.
Ildico turned toward him, her hands in the pockets of her overalls. She wore no coat, only a heavy blue sweater. Her blond hair was pulled back in a knot on her head, making her look older than seventeen. She watched him with her cold blue eyes; he lowered his head, intimidated. He was afraid of her, afraid of her strength and will. As René had weakened, she had held things together for him, building alliances with their neighbors, with the university, even with the army, which now seemed to take more of its orders from Ildico than from other army officials.
She said, "You didn't like what I did today, did you." He stepped back, startled. "I saw it on your face, Negron. You don't like me giving the tenant farmers their land."
"I don't think René would have liked it."
"René knew how I felt. He gave me the farm anyway. You don't care what he thought, you just don't like the idea. Well, people work harder on their own land, take my word."
Simon glanced at her. He had avoided her when he first arrived here with Aisha, assuming that the old man was sleeping with her, but that hadn't been so. Eventually he had been drawn into a strange relationship with her. She would consult with him, ask questions about various things, but that was all. At other times she avoided him, staring past him when he greeted her. One evening, when she had seemed in good spirits, he had tried a few of his lines on her, lines that had worked well enough with other women. His skin crawled as he recalled the look of amused contempt she had given him.
She walked down the hill. He followed, watching the mourners below disperse, some on foot, some in wagons drawn by horses. The army officers had a Jeep, the scholars a slow-moving electric car. Ildico said, "Aisha's better today. She was reading a book this morning."
He was silent. A farmer had brought Aisha back last night. She had screamed like a caged beast when he brought her in, tied up so that she could be managed. The spells had grown more frequent. He had tried to explain Mura's Syndrome to Ildico, but she wouldn't listen.
"I said, she's feeling better," Ildico repeated.
"It's only temporary," he said. "It won't last."
"I told you never to say that."
"You know I'm right," he replied. "You know it and you just won't admit it."
"People get crazy in the city. They don't out here."
"That's only because the disease can't spread as easily out here."
She halted and faced him. "You think you know so much. Joanie Pheem, the midwife, knows more about doctoring than you. She says it's coming up here from down south that did this to Aisha. She says she'll get better."
He sighed. Ildico knew his sore spot, all right. He fumbled, doing his best, but he didn't have the tools. He would do a successful appendectomy on a boozed-up farmer, only to have the patient die of shock; he would perform a tracheotomy on a woman with bronchial pneumonia, only to see her expire because there were no antibiotics. He didn't know why this bothered him so much, but it did; time was supposed to make you more callous, he knew that. But something had been stripped away from him here. Softness had infected him. He wanted to be a doctor, and he had become an advice-giver and broken-bone setter.
"Joanie Pheem is wrong," he said at last.
"She's not wrong."
"Ildico, she is, and you know it, I think you knew it when you first saw Aisha, and you just won't admit it."
Her cheeks were pink. She lifted her right arm and slapped him. He stepped back, startled, his face stinging. She spun around and stomped toward the university scholars, whose car had stalled on the dirt road running past the house.
René's house was a long, rambling, two-story structure. Two pillars stood on either side of the front porch; white paint was peeling from the building's metal siding. A windmill on one side of the house, along with the solar collectors set in the roof, provided some heat and hot water. Simon walked toward the house, head down, ignoring the wagons passing him.
He stood on the porch, wiping the dirt from his boots, then went inside. The hallway seemed damp and cold; the large house never seemed to retain heat, even when wood was burned in the fireplaces and the large furnace in the basement. Juan Jones sat at the foot of the stairs, watching him. Juan was lazy, useless to everyone except Ildico, the only person he obeyed. He kept her records, wrote letters for her, tidied her room, and looked after the stills in the back of the kitchen. "Where's Ildy?" the boy asked.
"Talking to some people," he replied, unbuttoning his coat.
Juan snorted. "Know why they came? Not to say so long to the old man, that's for sure. Just to drink up our booze. You should see what's left." The boy smiled. "Guess you're going to have to dry out for a while."
Simon ignored him. He didn't drink any more than anyone else here, he was sure—at least not much more. How else could he be expected to get through the long, tedious days? He'd seen enough of it on other farms as well. The work and the drinking aged people quickly. They reached their later years with tired hearts and weak livers.
He stepped past Juan and began to climb the wide stairs. He caught a movement above him and looked up. Aisha stood at the top of the stairs in a long, shapeless white gown. Hollows had formed in her cheeks. The hands protruding from the long sleeves were tiny claws. "I heard you were feeling better," he said as he climbed toward her.
She was silent. He stood on the step below her and held out his hand. "But you shouldn't be up," he went on. "You need more rest."
Her arms went up quickly. Her hands struck his chest, pushing him backward. He stumbled, grabbing for the banister. She pushed him again. His hands slid; he felt a splinter dig into his palm. She fell toward him. He managed to grab her with one arm, still clinging to the banister with the other. She tried to claw at his eyes. His head jerked away. "Juan," he yelled, "get up here, help me!" Aisha sagged against him. He held her as Juan trudged slowly up the stairs.
Aisha said, "I hate you. I hate you, I hate you." Juan took her by an arm and pulled her back up the stairs, leading her to the loveseat just outside René's bedroom door. The boy put an arm around her as they sat down.
Simon approached them. Aisha looked up with dark angry eyes. "I hate you," she repeated. He put a hand on her forehead. She was feverish. She struck his hand away.
"You don't mean it, you're not feeling well."
"I mean it. You can't fool me anymore. You knew it all this time and you didn't tell me, you knew I was dying, and you didn't tell me, you just used me to get what you wanted." Her voice was low, rasping. "I know what you're like now, I should have seen it before."
"You have to get some rest." He tried to take her arm. She pulled away, leaning against Juan. "See that she gets to her room, will you?" he said to the boy.
Juan smiled. "She almost got you," he said. "She almost sent you right down the stairs."
Simon spun around and hurried back down to the hallway below. He stopped at the foot of the stairs. His head was throbbing. He dug at the splinter in his palm. He would walk out the door, find a horse, leave. He should have done it before. He'd made it out of prison and lived. This was nothing, Ildico couldn't stop him.
He moved toward the door. It opened, and Ildico came inside, followed by Burris, the husky black man who had been René's foreman here. Ildico had deeded him ten percent of the farm, assuring his loyalty. She widened her eyes. "Going out again, Negron?"