by Isla Morley
Whether it’s a personal apocalypse such as being stolen from the world and kept a captive for years, or an environmental apocalypse, stories like this appeal to us in part because they play to our greatest fears and because we want to imagine how we might survive. In our everyday lives, most of us provide for our families, are hospitable to our neighbors and are charitable to those in need—we know this about are ourselves. But are we capable of being generous and selfless when we are in peril, when our loved ones are in peril? Are we capable of forgiving when the ultimate wrong has been done to us? Are there limits to our goodness, and even our belief in goodness? Of course, the apocalyptic scenario taps into our secret worry that the crazies might be right, but at its deepest level, only stories that confront the fathoms of despair can help us explore the extent of our capacity for goodness.
One of the strongest themes that emerges in Above is the idea of home—both as something that’s made and something that can’t be taken away (i.e. Blythe’s idea of her home in Eudora as always being her home). What does home mean for you?
Home for me can no longer be located with coordinates. The home of my youth exists only in my memory. I can go back to the country, to the street, to the same exact house, but it is not home. A part of my home lies on the bottom of the Indian Ocean where my parents’ scattered ashes came to rest. I hear something of my home whenever I lay my head on my husband’s chest or hear him sing. I am at home when my daughter holds my hand, and even when she doesn’t because she is a big girl now. And when my best friend laughs at my stupid jokes and says, “Oh, Isla,” when she says my name just so, then I am home, too.
What can your readers look forward to next? Are you working on something that deals with similar themes as Above, or something completely new?
I wrote my first book in a closet, which is probably a fitting metaphor to describe my writing life. Always there is the faint dread that my efforts will amount to a series of false starts, so cloistered, I will disappoint no one except myself. I can say my current story is going to be very different than either of my other books, and rather than jumping ahead in time, it goes back in time.
ISLA MORLEY grew up in South Africa during apartheid, the child of a British father and a fourth-generation South African mother. She now lives in Los Angeles with her husband, their daughter, and an assortment of animals. Her critically acclaimed debut novel Come Sunday was awarded the Janet Heidinger Kafka Prize for Fiction and was a finalist for the Commonwealth Prize. It has been translated into seven languages.
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Gallery Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Isla Morley
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Gallery Books hardcover edition March 2014
GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Interior design by Paul Dippolito
Jacket design by Lisa Litwack
Author photograph © Carol Saggese/trueshotphotos
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-4767-3152-0
ISBN 978-1-47673564-1 (ebook)
Contents
Part One: Below
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Part Two: Above
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Acknowledgments
Gallery Readers Group Guide
Introduction
Topics and Questions for Discussion
Enhance Your Book Club
A Conversation with Isla Morley
About Isla Morley
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To Bob and Emily
Part One
BELOW
I
DOBBS WINS THE fight easily. He shuts and locks the door. I feel a small sense of relief. With a hulking slab of metal separating us, I am finally able to breathe just a little. It is only when I hear another thump, another door closing someplace above me, that I understand: not only am I to be left alone; I am to be hidden.
I am a secret no one is able to tell.
Just like that, instead of wishing Dobbs gone, I am waiting for him to come back.
Surely, it won’t take long.
When Dobbs returns, I’ll take him off guard. I’ll push past him, dash outside, and sprint across the field. I will steer clear of the road. I’ll head for the line of sycamore trees along the creek. I’ll make my way east, and he won’t think to follow me there on account of its being trappers’ territory. Even if I do get snared, it’ll be better than this, because someone will find me. Nobody’s going to find me here, whatever here is. A dungeon? I can’t make any sense of it. A big round room with a massive pillar right through the middle of it. Contraptions, wires, pipes, spigots, dials. I keep my back turned to the space, keep my face pressed up against the door. It is made of steel and has a handle, although not like one I’ve ever seen. Something a bank might have on its vault.
What has he done? What’s happened to me?
Surely, Dobbs should be getting back by now. He’ll take me out of here. He’ll explain it to me, not like before, which didn’t make any sense. He won’t be rough, either. Or cross. He’ll be nice, like how he is in the library.
I look at Grandpa’s pocket watch; only fifteen minutes have passed. Even though it is still ticking, I wind it tight. If only I were still at the Horse Thieves Picnic, our town’s annual tradition that I look forward to all year. The gathering that attracts a couple thousand people has since moved from its original location among the walnut trees of Durr’s Grove to Main Street, and its contests no longer include Largest Mustache for Boys Under 17 or Baby with the Worst Case of Colic, but there is still a parade and a carnival. Apart from the parade, the next most popular event is the concert at the bandstand, where Daddy, no doubt, is now line dancing. It takes no effort to imagine what my sister and brothers are doing. Suzie, with Lula Campbell, will be strutting around the midway looking for boys, and Gerhard, not actually bleeding to death from wrecking his pickup on I-70 like Dobbs had first said, will be off with his pals to scale the water tower. Having left the Horse Thieves Picnic early on account
of Theo’s fever, Mama’s likely fallen asleep on her bed, the fan moving what the lazy July evening can’t be bothered to blow through the window. No one has probably even noticed that I’m gone. How long will it take them before they do? And when they do, where will they imagine I am? What will they think the cause for my absence is? They won’t be imagining anything bad, that’s for sure. Bad things don’t happen in Eudora, Kansas.
I look over my shoulder at the space behind me. The enormous concrete pillar and two partitions divide the round room into halves. Behind the partitions is where Dobbs said I could get myself something to drink. I can see a bit of the recliner, where I was I told to sit and wait.
I don’t like the looks of anything behind me, so I keep my eyes on Grandpa’s watch. The minute hand and I go for long walks around the numbers. And then the numbers, the watch face, and everything else disappear, just like the time lightning split the maple tree outside our living room and we all vanished in its blinding flash. It’s like that, except in reverse. The darkness has swallowed me whole.
I can’t see my hand, even when I hold it up to my face. Nothing seeps through the darkness. I keep waiting for my eyes to adjust. The outline of the partitions or the big concrete pillar should be visible. I start shivering.
I think I hear something. “Dobbs?”
The darkness snatches my voice and issues nothing in return.
“Hello?”
Don’t panic. The electricity’s gone out; give it a minute.
If this were home, Mama would be feeling her way to the pantry for the lantern and the matches she keeps on the top shelf. Gerhard would have the flashlight under his chin, his bottom teeth thrust outward and his eyes crossed and buggy, and Suzie would be getting all hysterical, as if he really were the bogeyman. And Daddy would be chiding Gerhard, but only halfheartedly, because there’s nothing better than spooking girls.
But this is not home. This is not any kind of place you’d put a person. What kind of things do people put in a place like this? How far underground am I? There were a lot of stairs and a long passage that kept making sharp left and right turns. And too many doors to keep track of. Locks.
Just think of home. Just give it a minute. Just wait.
* * *
There is no way to tell what time is doing. Has it been five minutes or half an hour? Shouldn’t the electricity have kicked back on by now?
There is a creak somewhere behind me, to the left. A shifting. My ears strain. I hold my breath so I can hear better. Is there something in here with me? Something doing the breathing for me? In. Out. Sounds like air through clenched teeth. Something with its lips drawn back. Oh Lord, what if it comes for me?
I mustn’t move. Not a sound, or I will give myself away.
How could anything have entered? Is there a hole in the wall? Maybe the noise is nothing but a draft coming through a vent. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe some inner door opened. Because this no longer feels like a confined space but a very large one, widening still.
There is something behind this door, too. Something that turns it freezing cold. I scoot back, exposed. On my hands and knees, I shuffle over to where the kitchen is supposed to be. I must hide. Hurrying as fast as I can, I ram straight into something. My head about cracks. I can’t make any sense of what I’ve hit—something with knobs. I keep hurrying, this time with one hand outstretched.
My hand locates the leg of the table. I get under it, bring my knees up to my chin, and grip myself tightly. Maybe whatever is making the sound is one of those things that can see in the dark. Which means it can see me under the table with the chair legs pressed against me. It doesn’t help to tell myself my imagination is playing tricks on me. Please. Oh, please.
Sit still. Don’t move. Quiet. Ssh. Help me, someone, please, God.
THE SOUND OF scraping is so loud I think the entire floor is going to give way. I hold on to the table leg.
The light snaps on. The first things I see are Dobbs’s shoes. Suede beige moccasins. The second thing I see is the gap behind that massive metal door after he’s entered. Maybe he will think I’ve run off. Maybe he’ll think me gone, head back upstairs, leave the door open.
“What are you doing under there? Silly girl. Come on out.” The shoes approach.
I don’t move.
“Come on. We’ve got work to do. I said I’d be back, didn’t I?”
I crawl out. “I’d like to go home, please.”
“We’re not going home now. I’ve explained that. Ten times already. I need us to finish our task. Teamwork, remember? Me, you, a team?”
“Please, I need to get back home. I’ve got chores and there’s my book report and my mother’s not going to be happy if—”
He puts down a sheaf of paper on the table and then pulls out a chair for me.
“Is this about the library books?” Theo had scribbled in them. I’d offered to pay the fine, but Dobbs had said not to worry. Now he’s changed his mind; he aims to punish me. Has to be it. It can’t be anything else. Why else would he be so calm, like people are supposed to be when disciplining kids? I’ve never noticed before that his eyes are spaced too far apart and are too small for such a long face. Barely noticeable are the features that are supposed to give a face definition: his eyebrows are thin and, like his eyelashes, fair; and his lips are the same pale color as the rest of his face. His skin from hairline to lips to drawn-out chin is that of a chicken before it goes into the oven. If it wasn’t for his thinning hair neatly combed over his ears, plucked is how he’d look.
His plaid shirt is tucked in. Clip-on tie perfectly straight.
“Sit.”
I do as he says. “Can we hurry? Because my mom and dad are going to get worried pretty soon. And then they’ll think—”
“They’re going to think what we want them to think.” Dobbs Hordin snaps the lid off the pen. The noise startles me. Only now do I realize there are no other sounds down here.
He pushes the pen in my hand, puts a crisp white sheet of paper in front of me, then takes from his top pocket a note, which he irons flat with his hand. “Copy this, word for word; no embellishing.” Tidy words, like buttons in a row. They’re for me to fasten up, fasten something that needs covering, putting away. The note I’m supposed to copy reads:
Dear Mom and Dad,
I know this will come as a shock to you. I have taken the bus to a city far away. Please don’t try to find me. I will write again when I am settled. Please don’t worry.
From your daughter,
Blythe
They’ll know from the very first line this didn’t come from me. Won’t they?
I scoot back. “You’re taking me away?” Shouldn’t there by a why in there someplace, too?
“Write.” He taps a long nail on the blank page. “The sooner you write this, the sooner we can move on.”
There are going to be a dozen ways to escape, none of them from here. I write the first word, but I’m seeing myself at the counter of some down-at-the-heel diner where the waitress has everything sized up before Dobbs is through ordering. Finish the letter and get going, I tell myself. The sooner you get to that diner, the better. And if not that, then out the window of a 7-Eleven restroom.
Dobbs leans over me and watches me copy each word. He’s too close. I can feel his breath on my neck. He smells of mouthwash.
He puts his hand on the table next to mine. Underneath it is the poem I’d written while waiting for Arlo at the Horse Thieves Picnic tonight. He mutters and shakes his head.
“You had no problem writing this.” I ask him to give me back the poem, but he tucks it into his shirt pocket and says, “You really feel this way? Over that boy?” As though there is something deficient about Arlo, as though the last thing a sixteen-year-old should be doing is giving Arlo Meier the light of day, much less her heart.
I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
He bends toward the paper I am working on. He says, “I’ve always admired your handwriting,” befor
e taking it away and tearing it up.
The next two attempts go the same way, but I can’t write the note without some little clue for my mother, something she can use to show the police officer, so she can say, “See, Blythe would never be so careless with her loops.” Or “She never forgets to cross her t’s, but see here—three in a row.” And if they don’t believe her, she can fish out my diary and hold it up against the note. It won’t take but a quick comparison by a handwriting expert to see what is going on. “Yes, she is being held against her will. Be on the lookout for a man with wispy hair and teeth so uniformly stubby they look filed or gnashed, like the Bible says. Five ten, hundred and seventy pounds, middle forties, queer habit of clearing his throat when agitated. Look for a silver Oldsmobile with a rosary draped over the rearview mirror.”
“I’ll take that,” Dobbs says of my next attempt, and hands me a fresh page.
With him watching so closely, I try to be more careful. On every other line, I write a letter backward.
Dobbs slips the paper from under my hand, crumples it. “We can do this all night, if you want.”
On the new page, my handwriting is impeccable. Every i dotted; every t crossed. He thinks I am complying. He doesn’t seem to notice when I press down on a letter a little harder. If Mama turns the page over, those letters should stick out a little. If they do, even a blind man will see what’s happening. All she has to do is run her fingers lightly over the letters, rearrange them in her head, and they are going to spell d-o-b-b-s. Nothing more need be said, because she’ll be right back to that night two years ago when Dobbs Hordin turned up in our living room, rousing her suspicions like a stick in a nest of sleeping copperhead snakes.