Authors: Hillary Jordan
“She’s with child.”
“Ah.” Because the virus mutated all skin cells in the body, including a fetus’s, pregnant women were exempt from melachroming until after their babies were born. “And what are the dolls for?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Bridget said.
In the dining hall, Hannah attracted more than a few curious glances. The mortification she felt was acute—not an hour ago, these women had seen her naked—and she walked with her head bent and her shoulders slightly hunched, not meeting anyone’s eyes. There were six long tables, each with twelve seats. Three of the tables were already full. Bridget took a seat at a fourth that was half full. Hannah sat down beside her, and Kayla seated herself on Hannah’s other side.
“You will sit at the first available place,” Bridget said. “You will not sit at an empty table unless all occupied tables are completely full. You will not save a seat for anyone.”
Observing the other women enter the room, however, Hannah could see that the seating process was not nearly as arbitrary as Bridget would have had it be. There was subtle maneuvering taking place: the exchange of sidelong glances and small jerks of the head; deliberate pauses as women waited for a friend to catch up or avoided sitting next to someone they disliked. Hannah watched Eve stop to fiddle with her shoe until the group of Yellows she was with had passed her and then seat herself at the next table. Scant though it was, Hannah felt heartened by this evidence of rebellion and camaraderie.
A set of swinging doors opened, and chromed women emerged carrying pitchers of water and bowls and platters of food. “You will serve at table every fourth day and perform other assigned tasks in the afternoons,” Bridget said. She pointed to a corkboard on the wall. “The work schedule for the week is posted every Monday morning.”
“Are the assignments permanent, or do we rotate?”
“That depends. Do you have any useful skills?” Bridget’s expression was skeptical.
“Yes, I’m a professional seamstress.”
“How apt,” Bridget said, with an unpleasant little smile. Before Hannah could ask what she meant, Bridget said, “Mrs. Henley will invite you to her parlor for tea on Saturday. You will inform her of your abilities at that time. You will refrain from exaggerating your skills.”
“You will kiss my sweet red ass,” Kayla said, under her breath.
Hannah’s lips twitched in amusement. Bridget leaned forward, looking around Hannah at Kayla. “Were you saying something, Walker?”
“I was, Walker,” Kayla replied, her face a picture of earnest piety. “I was asking Jesus to watch over us all as we travel the path.”
Hannah clasped her hands before her and bowed her head. “Yes, Lord, please shepherd and watch over us, especially Walker Bridget, who will soon be leaving us and reentering the outside world.”
“Amen,” said Kayla. She was echoed by a soft chorus of other voices.
Hannah looked up to find Bridget regarding her suspiciously and several of the other women smirking. Bridget’s eyes scoured the table. The pregnant girl, who was sitting at the far end with her doll in her lap, was slow to cover her smile with her hand, and Bridget fixed her with a murderous stare. The girl was saved—for the moment, at least—by the entrance of the Henleys. The room fell silent as they walked to the last two places at the last table. Reverend Henley held the chair for his wife, settling her comfortably before launching into a lengthy, meandering prayer of thanksgiving. Finally, he finished and took his seat, and the women began helping themselves to the food. A muted buzz of conversation arose. Hannah was relieved to hear it; she’d been afraid meals would be eaten in silence.
The food was plain and just as plainly economical—a tofu macaroni casserole and frozen green beans—but there were homemade rolls and real butter to go with them. The familiar yeasty smell was heavenly, and Hannah found that she was hungry after all. “You will not take more than your fair portion,” Bridget said, and when the platter came round to Hannah, she saw why: there was barely enough for all twelve of them, and only if everyone was careful to take modest helpings. She served herself and passed the platter to Kayla. When it reached the pregnant girl, she took twice as much as the rest of them. Hannah noticed a few resentful expressions, but no one objected.
“Pregnant women get double portions,” Kayla said in a low voice. “Nobody likes to sit at Megan’s table.”
Kayla introduced Hannah to the women nearest them, but after the initial hellos, she didn’t say much. She listened to the others speak quietly among themselves, mostly of news from home, which she gathered was a kind of currency here, with letters from husbands and boyfriends conferring the most status. To her surprise, Bridget not only joined in the conversation but was actually pleasant to everyone except Hannah and Megan. The other women were cordial in return, but as with Kayla earlier, Hannah could sense their wariness and dislike.
As she ate, she noticed an Orange at the other end of the table looking at her surreptitiously. Her face reminded Hannah of characters in an old 2-D vid she used to love when she was a child; silly, waddling creatures with tangerine skin and olive green hair. Becca had been scared of them, but they’d made Hannah laugh. They had a funny name—what was it? And why did the woman keep looking at her?
“I seen you on the news vids,” the Orange said finally, in response to Hannah’s questioning stare. The table fell silent, and she felt eleven pairs of eyes on her. “You must a loved him a whole lot, not to have told.”
Pain, keen and unexpected, bloomed in her, and she knew it must be visible to the others.
“You must have snorted a whole lot of kite, not to have gotten off with a misdemeanor conviction,” Kayla said to the woman. “Kite or amp. Which was it, Walker?”
Stung, the woman looked down at her plate, but not before Hannah saw the hunger in her eyes, the sick, helpless yearning of an addict for the thing she knew would destroy her.
“It’s all right,” Hannah told Kayla. Addressing the woman, she said, “Yes, I loved him. I couldn’t help but love him.”
The woman looked up, and Hannah remembered the name of the creatures from the vid: Oompa Loompas. Preposterous, capering objects of ridicule, barely recognizable as human beings.
T
HE EVENING SERVICE
was long and the sermon dull— Reverend Henley, Hannah was beginning to see, was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and he liked to hear himself talk— but she found comfort in the fellowship, and when it came time to pray, she did so earnestly, thanking God for this place of refuge and asking His help in keeping to the path. Though she didn’t feel His answering presence within her, it was good to be in communication with Him again, after a month of shamed silence.
Afterward, Bridget showed Hannah the rest of the center: the reading room with its shelves of Christian books and printed periodicals; the laundry room and cleaning supply closet; the kitchen; the sewing room (“Most likely you will work here—
if
you are as good as you say”); the closed doorways to Mrs. Henley’s parlor and Reverend Henley’s study (“You will not disturb the reverend while he’s working or seek to have a private meeting with him for any reason; if you have a problem, you will go to Mrs. Henley”). Hannah trailed after her guide wearily, buoying herself with the thought of the bed waiting at the end of the tour.
Bridget opened the door to a windowless room containing ten straight-backed wooden chairs arranged in a circle. One entire wall was a vidscreen. So, some technology was allowed. “This is your place of enlightenment,” Bridget said. “You will come here tomorrow, immediately after the morning service.”
“You won’t be with me?”
“No. My place is elsewhere.” The brief cheer Hannah felt at this news was dashed when Bridget added, “I’ll come for you afterward and accompany you to lunch.”
“Where’s your place?”
“Upstairs, with others like myself.”
Again, that contemptuous tone. It rankled Hannah, breaking through her fatigue. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Being my guide or whatever.”
“Pathfinder,” Bridget corrected. “It’s my duty, as the Red who has been here the longest.”
“I think you enjoy it,” Hannah said. “Being the authority, telling people what to do. I bet you volunteered.”
The other woman’s nostrils flared. “You are mistaken,” Bridget said, spitting out the words, “if you think that I would want to spend a single minute with one of
you.”
The day’s indignities, large and small, coalesced in Hannah’s breast, forming a hot ball of fury. As Bridget started to turn away, Hannah grabbed her hand, holding it up at eye level with her own: red on red. “I don’t see any difference between us,” she said. “We’re both killers, aren’t we? Who’d you kill, Bridget?”
Bridget yanked her hand out of Hannah’s, drawing it back as though she were going to strike her. Hannah stood unmoving, marking the naked emotions that chased across Bridget’s face and seeing, as manifestly as if the other woman had confided in her, the terrible pain beneath her outrage. Suddenly Hannah felt sorry for her, this bristling, anguished, middle-aged woman. She recalled how frightened she herself had been just a few hours ago, in the safety of her father’s car, when the boy had taunted her, and she thought of how much more so she’d be when she had to go into the world as a Chrome.
But just as she was about to apologize, Bridget seemed to collect herself, lowering her hand to her side and her mask of chilly indifference back in place. “You have just stepped off the path, Walker. How unfortunate.”
“What are you talking about?” Hannah asked.
“You will not intentionally lay hands on another walker. It’s one of the rules.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
Bridget’s eyebrows shot up in mock consternation. “Oh, I’m certain I did. I’m afraid I’ll have to report you to Mrs. Henley.”
Which would
not
be a good way to begin here. “Look,” Hannah said, in a conciliatory tone, “I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s been a rough day.”
“You think this is rough? This is nothing compared to what it’s like out there, on your own.
Nothing.”
Bridget’s voice broke on the word. Abruptly, she turned away from Hannah and started walking down the hall.
“What happened to you?” Hannah called softly after her.
Without stopping or turning around, Bridget said, “You’ll find out what rough really is, when they kick you out of here.” She went down the stairs that led to the dormitory. Hannah stood looking after her, knowing she had no choice but to follow.
E
XHAUSTION TRUMPED THE
strangeness of her surroundings, and Hannah slept deeply that first night, waking when the lights went on at five thirty. Dazed, she blinked against their glare. For a few awful seconds, she thought she was back in the Chrome ward, but then she heard movement on either side of her, the squeak of bedsprings and the little sighs and groans of other women pulled reluctantly from sleep, and memory returned. She knew she should get up, but her limbs were heavy. The hiss of running water and the soft drone of the women’s voices were pleasant, soothing. Her eyes were just starting to flutter closed again when she felt the bed shake.
“Wake up,” someone said in a loud whisper. Hannah opened her eyes and saw Kayla standing at the foot of the bed. “Fridget’s watching. Come on.” She turned and headed for the bathroom.
Hannah forced herself to a vertical position, got out of bed and collected her meager toiletries.
The bathroom was crowded. The women’s red faces were thrown into vivid relief by the white of the walls and their nightgowns. A couple of women acknowledged her with little dips of their heads, and Megan gave her a shy smile, but most of them ignored her, intent on their own toilettes. Hannah brushed her teeth and coiled her braid into a bun, pinning it up as best she could. There was a line for the toilets and then for the showers. By the time it was her turn, the water was tepid, and she had to rush to finish in time for breakfast. Still, it felt good to be clean, to have washed away the residue of the Chrome ward.
Hannah dressed and made her bed. Bridget was waiting for her by the door. She was about to follow her from the room when she heard a loud cough from behind her. She turned and saw Kayla looking at her with a wrinkled brow, patting the top of her head. Hannah was momentarily baffled, but then she remembered:
You will keep your hair decently covered except when sleeping.
She fetched her bonnet from the peg and put it on, taking some satisfaction in Bridget’s moue of disappointment.
They proceeded to the dining hall, with Kayla close behind them. Hannah hadn’t had a chance to speak with her new friend since the afternoon before, and she was hoping they’d sit next to one another again. But when they got there, Bridget moved quickly to take the last two seats at the open table, forcing Kayla to sit elsewhere.
Once everyone was assembled, Mrs. Henley entered alone and said a considerably less long-winded grace than her husband’s. Breakfast was scant: a small bowl of oatmeal, a glass of milk and an apple. Afterward, still hungry, Hannah went with Bridget to consult the work schedule. They found their names under kitchen service for tomorrow’s lunch and Friday’s breakfast. Bridget also had chapel service all week. Hannah scanned the roster, which also included bathroom service, laundry service, floor service and sewing service, but her own name was missing.
“I don’t seem to be on here,” she said.
“You’ll have other work to do in the afternoons this week.”
There was also, Hannah saw, a heading called Zilpah, with one name listed beneath it. She wanted to ask what it meant but swallowed the question. To show ignorance was to show weakness. She would not bare her throat to Bridget.
“Hannah?” called a sweet, lilting voice. Mrs. Henley was beckoning her over to her table.
Bridget smirked. “It seems she wants a word with you.”
Bitch.
Bracing herself for a reprimand, Hannah went to Mrs. Henley.
“Good morning, Walker,” she said, with a dimpled smile. “How are you settling in?”