Roger conceded with a nod. "A while ago, a team of ours followed one of their transports. It was dangerous, but the team uncovered that The Firsts are moving people to a place beyond the landmines. This is possible because they have control of the mines. They can turn them off and on when they want.
Irene straightened in her chair. “Has anyone been able to sneak onto the transports?”
“We haven’t managed to do so yet. Security is tight. You’d almost need to be processed to do so.”
Irene slumped back in her chair. “When I think of all that time I spent at the White House away from my family . . .”
“I remember you always speaking so highly of your family. I’m sorry I never had the opportunity to meet them, but this pain you’re feeling now is why this town exists. None of these people had to go through what you’ve experienced. Being a part of that and saving others from what you are going through will be a good thing. It will be like a balm to your wounds in missing your family. And who knows? It may even help you with your doubts.”
Irene tilted her head. “What are you trying to say?”
“The town is growing every day,” Roger continued, “I was once able to run the warehouse and the town, but I can’t be at two places at once. I need help, so I’m asking if you’ll manage the warehouse.”
“You mean be in charge of it?”
“Yes, I trust you and—”
“Roger, I’m only an advisor. I don’t make decisions. I don’t lead people. I provide analysis and then—whoever—decides what to do.”
“But in offering your analysis, haven’t you already made a decision?”
Irene paused for a moment. She’d never thought about it in that way.
Roger leaned closer. “I know you can do this.”
“All I want is to find my family.”
“Of course, use the warehouse’s resources—pick up where we left off in trying to find a way to the relocation sites. That could be your first act as the new leader.”
Irene stared at the fireplace. It was dormant due to the warm spring weather the town was experiencing, and in fact, appeared as if Roger had never used it. That was how she would feel being in charge. She would be an untested, unseasoned leader.
She’d met such people in her capacity as an advisor to the president, individuals who’d taken similar leadership positions with little or no experience. For some, natural abilities and determination made up for the deficiency. For others, their tenure ended disastrously, having no God-given talent to cover their lack of experience in managing the day to day. “This is the second job offer I’ve had this week,” she stated. “The Firsts also tried to recruit me.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. They also tried to get me to work for them, not knowing that I already knew they were experimenting on people.” Roger rubbed at his brow as if the thought still hurt him physically. “The Firsts wanted me to help round up people by marketing their processing to the masses from a spiritual standpoint. I told them that erasing people’s memories was bad for my business.”
“Bad for business?”
Roger gestured in the direction of the sanctuary. "If you forcibly remove the memory of the wrong that people do, then they will no longer see a need for a Savior to forgive them of those wrongs. That's bad for the church's business which aims to bring people to repentance and a belief in the Savior.”
Irene paused and thought for a moment about what Roger was saying. Clearly, he’d spent more time than she in considering the spiritual ramifications of processing. “So you’re saying that if I don’t take this job, our entire faith will be at stake?”
Roger laughed. “I didn’t mean to suggest that.”
Irene swept her hair away from her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, weary from the day’s emotional ups and downs. “Will you let me think about it overnight?”
“Of course, we have you set up at Kingston’s summerhouse to stay as long as you need.”
“I do want to help, and maybe after a good night’s sleep, I’ll be able to see that I can.”
…
Chris wasn’t in the movie room when Irene returned to the summerhouse. He was upstairs, reclining in a chair near the window eating popcorn.
“No good movies in Kingston’s collection?”
He tossed a single piece into his mouth and motioned at the town below. “This show’s better.”
“True,” she said, joining him.
“It's weird, isn't it?"
Irene positioned a pillow behind her back. “What is?”
“How the city has become lifeless. People look like they’re under some kind of trance. But here, everybody looks and acts—”
“Like people?”
“Yeah.” Chris tilted the bag of popcorn toward Irene as if to offer her some. She lifted her hand but then hesitated.
Chris jiggled the bag in front of her. “It’s fresh. Just like the stuff back in the tube. Natalie bought it for me from a man who makes it in town.”
“In that case . . .” Irene dug her hand into the bag and sat back to watch the show as well. Silence passed between them as the evening light began to descend on the small community. A few electric lights flickered through the dimness. The lack of light, however, did little to discourage the town. It continued to bustle with activity. “I never formally thanked you for rescuing me,” Irene offered, breaking the quiet, “so thank you.”
“I was just doing my job.”
Irene tossed a piece of popcorn at him. The bit tumbled down his shirt to the floor, where he swept it up to eat it. Irene shook her head and returned her attention to the town. “Well, thank you for doing a good job. Pretty soon, I’ll probably be saying that a lot to people."
“How come?”
“My meeting with Roger was more of a recruiting session. He wants me to take over the warehouse.”
“Really?” Chris sat up slightly in his chair. “Are you . . . going to do it?”
“I told him I’d sleep on it.” Irene tossed one more piece of popcorn into her mouth and stood from her seat. "And that is what I'm going to do. Where are the bedrooms in this place?"
“They’re back the hall,” Chris answered and then paused. “But before you go, I’ve got a question.”
“Sure.”
“How is Roger Stein connected to Kingston?”
“They were good friends. You can probably find a picture of them together around here somewhere.” Irene looked about the space for personal items, ignoring the various pieces of art situated on tabletops. Noticing a long buffet table in the dining room with a collection of framed photos on it, she walked toward it and scanned the images for a picture of the two friends together. “Here’s one of Roger with Kingston at some kind of event.” Irene picked up the frame and took it over for Chris to see.
Taking it in hand, Chris tapped on the glass in front of the photo. “This is Roger?”
“Yeah.”
Chris stood from his seat and looked at the picture longer than necessary. “He looks—”
“What?”
“Familiar.”
“Well, I’m not surprised. You probably recognize him from the news before the war. Roger hated being on TV, but it was difficult to avoid, knowing the president.”
“Right,” Chris uttered, handing the frame back to Irene.
“Don’t stay up too late watching ‘the show,’” Irene said, heading back toward the buffet table to return the frame to its rightful place. Setting it back in position, she could sense Chris watching her.
“Would you care to join me?” he asked.
“Join you?”
“I was thinking about going into town tonight since Natalie said Roger wants to meet me here at the summerhouse tomorrow.”
"I'm exhausted, Chris." She glanced at him quickly and turned back to organizing the photos. Oddly enough, she found the task calming. "It's been quite the day." Finishing, she twisted about more fully, noticing he’d not moved but remained focus
ed on her.
“When we first got here,” he began, “I didn’t want to go into town. Somehow, I thought it best to think of it like a movie, but now I think I’d regret it if I didn’t go, and I could use the company.”
Irene heard the plea in his voice, and it was hard to deny such a simple request from the man who’d rescued her. She dropped her hands to her sides. “Sure, I’ll go.”
…
The town grew livelier than before as townspeople gathered outside their homes conversing from dinner parties spilling out onto the street. Guests mixed and mingled from one house to the next, perhaps not recalling which residence they'd initially been invited to.
Chris seemed pleased by the spectacle. He pointed to a place up ahead, a pub on a corner. As the two approached, music tumbled out onto the avenue from inside the establishment.
Stepping through the door, the place was full of patrons with a band of four situated near a small fireplace that blazed with the hope of keeping the cool night air at bay. Finding a small table pushed up next to the bar, Irene observed the faces of those around her as she and Chris took a seat. Everyone seemed homed in on the band whose members were singing a simple song about the town.
Oh, journey with me to the shores of this new promise,
and I promise you’ll not want to return.
There is only darkness where you live,
and nothing but promise where I am.
So join me in my promise right now.
As the band repeated the chorus, Irene thought about the moment, back in the city, when she'd seen children willingly going with The Firsts. It seemed The Firsts didn’t always need to use force to drive the general population into processing. Manipulating and lying to them appeared to work just as well.
Donatello tried to recruit her through such means, and Roger mentioned how The Firsts wanted him to use his faith to persuade others, so it was apparent that The Firsts had no problem using such methods. The singer and those nodding seemed to have experienced it too, for the song was an appeal to those back in the city to escape The Firsts' lies.
As the tune ended, the band went on break. Irene watched as Chris ran his hand down his face as if wiping away an unwelcomed emotion. “Ah boy, you want something to drink?” he asked her loudly as chatter took over.
“No, thanks.”
"Well, I need one." Chris maneuvered around the table to get to the bar that was just beside it. "What do you serve?" Irene heard him ask the bartender, who had a thick black beard with just as thick biceps.
He was shining up a mug as Chris made his inquiry but stopped, leaning toward Chris so he wouldn’t need to shout. “We have beer,” the bartender said matter-of-factly. He then looked back over his shoulder at his collection of mugs. “And we have beer.”
“Umm,” Chris sounded, hesitating longer than necessary. “I think I’ll have . . . a beer.”
Irene peeked over her shoulder just in time to catch the bartender scowl and slam the beer mug onto the counter. She chuckled to herself. Chris's sense of humor was apparently funnier to her when it wasn't directed at her.
“Thaaanks. How do I pay?” Chris rummaged through his wallet, perhaps realizing the obvious, which was that The Firsts’ ration bills wouldn’t work in town.
The bartender motioned at Irene with his bearded chin. “Since you’re with her—it’s on the house.”
Chris raised his mug to him and returned to the table. "Now you've impressed me," he said, pointing at Irene with one of his fingers that had been wrapped around the mug.
“That’s what finally impresses you about me? That I can get you a free beer?”
Chris chugged his drink and then set it on the table. “Yep.”
The band returned a few minutes later, and the pub quieted. After taking their instruments in hand, they paused a second or two before starting in on a lively jig. The small area in front of the bar quickly turned into a dance floor.
Chris clapped his hands together. “Come on.” He reached for Irene’s hand. “You can do better than that,” he said, apparently noticing her tapping her foot.
“No, no, I haven’t danced since—”
“Let me guess—since before the war?” Chris stepped closer. “Don’t you think it’s time?” he whispered as if to chastise her.
She agreed with a smile, and she felt it was the bravest thing she’d done in a very long time. To dance meant something was okay, and it was courageous to believe such a thing.
…
Chris and Irene’s dance didn’t last long.
Being a bit exuberant, Chris had tripped over something on the dance floor and twisted his ankle. The brave exhibition quickly turned into a real inconvenience as Irene helped him limp back to the summerhouse.
“I just don’t get it,” Chris said with his arm wrapped around Irene’s shoulder. “I’m usually pretty graceful.” He stopped and snapped his fingers. “That homebrewed beer— It must have had a lot of alcohol in it.”
“Ah, ha,” Irene managed to get out, breathing heavily from the exertion of carrying half of Chris’s weight. “I’m going to need to rest. Let me lean you up against the side of this building.”
Chris hopped to the wall as Irene put her hands on her hips and breathed forcefully in and out, trying to catch her breath.
“Sorry about this.”
Irene had to laugh at his apparent humiliation. But he didn’t flinch at her teasing. Instead, he smiled in return, revealing he was one of those rare individuals who could take as good as he got.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked.
Irene patted him on the chest. “Very much so.”
Chris took hold of her hand, and with his other, he drew her near. She wondered if his vulnerable state was why she allowed him to do such a thing. Glancing up from his unexpected touch, she found something else surprising. His eyes held a sadness from a source she didn’t know. And it was perhaps this, more than desire, that affected her. Was he hoping she could somehow lessen his misery? For an instant, the notion tricked her into believing he could do the same for her. But she pulled away, recognizing the lie. “My husband is still out there.”
“Your husband has forgotten you."
Irene knew the words were meant to hurt. They were an obvious counterattack to her rejection. But they didn’t sting as Chris had intended. She’d thought the same dismal thought repeatedly in her own mind. “But I haven’t forgotten my husband,” she retorted, saying out loud what she'd often tell herself.
Chris looked away down the street to some distant point of interest. “You’ve impressed me for a second time tonight,” he uttered. “I owe you an apology.” He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s just this bloody town. It makes you believe anything is possible.” He laughed wearily. “Maybe that’s how The Firsts are going to win. They’ll make everyone who’s not been processed—crazy.”
“You may be right,” Irene said coolly, attempting to be nonchalant about the entire incident. “Now, let’s get you back to the summerhouse. That’s one thing I can do for you.”
“Well, you don’t do it very well. You’ve knocked into my knee twice.”
“I’m sorry,” Irene said, feeling the tension easing between them. “I’m not used to hauling a man back from a pub after he’s twisted his ankle from doing a jig.”
…
Irene awoke to the familiar sounds of breakfast being prepared in the kitchen. After dressing, she made her way there as the smell of bacon led the way. “Is that bacon?" she asked Natalie, who was standing at the stove wearing sweatpants and a baseball shirt.
Natalie turned about and slid a couple of slices onto a plate. She handed it to Irene. “A man raises hogs about mile from here.”
Irene stared at the two strips in amazement. Back in the city, bacon and meat, in general, were scarce. Everyone was on food rations. Only those in charge—only The Firsts seemed to have a plentiful supply of it. “Smells so good.”
Natalie pl
aced a few more uncooked strips into the pan. They sizzled as they hit the hot surface. “Tastes even better,” Natalie said, seeming to notice Irene’s vigil of the slices on her plate.
“Hmm, I’m sure they do." Irene's mouth watered as she took a bite. Swallowing, she looked up at Natalie. "So people are living beyond the town?”
“We have farmers growing corn and other fruits and vegetables. Kingston developed the land for farming when he built the summerhouse, so there wasn’t much for us to do when it came to planting. In fact, this is our second season of growing crops. Roger made sure we had storehouse of food before he began bringing people here.”
Irene sat in one of the two chairs situated behind the counter. “It all seems so well planned.”
“Roger is a good planner.”
“True.” Irene returned to the food in front of her, and when she was done, she noticed the absence of commotion coming from Chris's room. Certainly, the smell of bacon would have awakened an eater like Chris.
“He left last night,” Natalie said, perhaps noticing Irene’s attention being drawn down the hall. She forked some bacon onto a plate for herself and leaned up against the counter. “He said he needed to return to warehouse.”
“But he didn’t get to meet Roger.”
“No, he was in too much of a hurry.”
“Oh?”
Natalie swirled her fork in the air. “I think this place motivated him.”
“Motivated him?”
“I think in seeing town, he wanted to do more to help The Opposition.”
Irene wondered if there was another reason. Was he still embarrassed by what had happened between them last night? For Irene, it wasn’t the first time she’d been propositioned in such a way. Washington had been full of lonely men far away from their families. She had to admit, however, that last night was different from those other occurrences. This time, she was the one tempted.
But perhaps Natalie was right. Chris did seem to have been affected by the town. Maybe it had sparked a renewed purpose in him. At that thought, she felt a little ashamed about being afraid to lead the warehouse. She smiled and motioned at Natalie’s baseball T-shirt. “I suppose we all need to step up to the plate at some point.”
The Gift of Remembering Page 5