The Shelter

by Peter Foley

  “Do you know what that means?” asks Hazel.

  “It means that the capital, capitalistic people, um, that way we can… I would like to, er, overthrow this country right now.”

  The words trigger a transient flush of alarm within Hazel. The increased disquiet is repressed weakly as she asks the boy, “Is that right?”

  “We all are violent revolutionaries,” says another youth, and the children nod in agreement.

  Astonished, Hazel asks them, “What are you fighting against?”

  A stony silence overtakes the room, the boys and girls, looking as if they’re sat in uncomfortable little red sacks.

  With muted alarm and no further warning, Hazel instantly bleeds into a crippling stress induced fatigue of the mind. The unreality of the moment, and of the many moments before this one, all collect into hours and days and strike her as if they were equal to years. This place, these conditions, they bear down on her consciousness like a dead weight. The weariness sets in deep, as if her brain is in the process of shutting down through sheer exhaustion of nerves. Catching herself in a wearisome yawn she asks, “Who taught you to say those words?”

  “Father,” they all say.

  Hazel’s tired mind turns again to escape, but her mind has wandered into a thick gray debilitating fog. With a deep intake of breath she narrows her strained focus on the only genuine plan she has. As she rubs her eyes she knows well that only one path is open to her, she knows that she has one and only one chance for escape.

  Courtney, you better get those fucking keys…

  37

  The axe forgets, but the tree remembers

  Don’t just sit here and read, underneath Salvation’s concrete drape you must work. Activities of all kinds are now being done in every quarter, and every person is busy at their task. The housekeepers are diligently straightening rumpled beds and gathering grubby, sodden towels from the shower rooms for the laundry crew, who in turn are spending their day washing and beating those same towels into a condition considered approximately clean. Meanwhile, the storeroom attendants are taking an inventory of supplies, the sewing circle are making new gowns and mending old ones, repair personnel are giving hope to the broken and in other more private rooms, the Planning Committee gather and consider important things before they spread out to monitor Salvation’s good work.

  If you, in this moment, were dressed in a blue gown and were free to roam the halls and corridors of the shelter, you’d feel the cold concrete floor through the soles of your shoes as you walk a dimly lit musty-smelling corridor. You’d probably follow your nose to the better fragranced air of the kitchen, where, by the better light of that place, you’d see Courtney and Sid coming face to face for the first time.

  Sid begins the induction. “The first rule; don’t go in the freezer, okay? After the shift is over, the freezer gets locked by me. I got the key here,” he says, patting his waist to reveal a glinting ring of keys.

  “Second rule,” continues Sid, “smile and you’ll be fine.” He taps Courtney on the shoulder. He walks to the other counter and fails to notice her flinch. Her nerves are getting the better of her, she is too aware that she’s in the presence of the man who killed Ethan and cut down her future.

  Anger and fear have become two moons pushing and pulling the tide of Courtney’s mind to opposite poles, but her thoughts always return to the same question: how insignificant must Sid’s murderous actions have been in his own mind? So small and inconsequential, the act of destroying her life, that he doesn’t even remember her. At the time of the fateful event, he didn’t even spare a pause to acknowledge her heartbreak on the blood-soaked checkout floor. Trembling with undeclared fright, she fixes her eyes on the view through the serving hatch to the Common Room, where Easter sits rocking little Quincy while several other women make a happy fuss over the young boy. Courtney looks away in discomfort and surveys the kitchen interior.

  As we can see, the kitchen is about twice the size of the standard sleeping quarters. Resting on top of wooden closets are scratched steel work surfaces that stretch the length of two walls, one behind Courtney and one in front. At the latter counter Sid runs water into an empty sink. The wall at which Courtney stands features the serving hatch, of course. At this same wall, utensils dangle over a small chopping board. To her right is a large gas-fired stove. To her left is a large walk-in freezer that dominates the space. Its entrance is a frosted metal door. A seam of rivets puncture its outer edge and in its middle is a heavy circular handle that would not look out of place on a submarine. In her plotting, it occurs to Courtney that this frozen food locker would be large enough to hold Sid’s body.

  Sid leans over her shoulder. He slaps a knife on the counter in front of her. She feels his breath on her face.

  “Take this and chop the carrots for tonight’s meal. You can see, here are the carrots and I’ve a pot boiling already.” He lifts the lid of a tall stainless-steel pot, releasing a cloud of steam that leaves behind frantic bubbles and white foaming water. He puts his fingertips to his pursed lips and kisses. “It’s going to be beautiful!”

  The heat of the kitchen is heavy on her brow. A large pile of washed carrots sit on the countertop near the chopping board. She picks up the cold heavy knife. It’s large, with a deep ridged crescent blade above a slender black plastic handle. A fine tool for its purpose.

  “Go ahead, do your worst,” Sid says, with an encouraging smile.

  Courtney’s mind spins and her anger capitulates into panic.

  Now? Now! NOW?!

  Looking out from the serving hatch again, she glances at Easter and Quincy. Courtney slowly chops the carrots while she watches Easter laugh and smile and play with her child. The slow fibrous break and muted clop of the knife on the plastic board distracts Courtney as she struggles between two worlds.

  She remembers Ethan so clearly, vividly remembers the good times. Indeed, they were all good times; the beach vacations to the Maldives; the scattering fish; his face in the snorkel; his laughter. He’s gone. For no reason at all. His death was so unnecessary, so unfair. Gone forever, and the man who took him away stands beside her, at this very moment, and she with a knife in her hands.

  He must die.

  Her heart flutters, her nerves splinter and her adrenaline pulses. She reaches bursting point, it’s now or never.

  “Hey, you okay?” Sid looks at her with a breed of concern that could be mistaken for frustration. He taps her shoulder, less attentive than earlier, causing Courtney to turn and face him. She holds the knife behind her back, as if it might confess her murderous thoughts.

  “Hey, don’t worry, Courtney. Everything’s going to be A-okay, all right?” He places his hand on her arm and feels her tremble. Her chest moves rapidly with quick breathing, her skin is flushed red. Sid stands and stares. A flicker of recognition lights his eyes.

  “Oh! You! Oh no, oh no! Not the lady from the supermarket… Oh, my God… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” He turns his back briefly, too quickly for Courtney to act. He turns round to her again and, looking in her eyes, says, “I’m so sorry.” Her body relaxes a little, the last syllable of his last word hangs in the air as he steps closer to her and plunges a knife deep into her abdomen.

  A shock ignites her body, her muscles ripple and tighten, with sharp breaths her eyes grow wide, she looks down and sees a slender black handle protruding from her stomach. At its base, surrounded by a dark red growing plume, is the silvery shimmer of the blade’s heel against the blood-soaked red fabric of her gown. Fragments of light swirl, memories strobe. She falls to the floor.

  Sid reaches down, grabs a handful of her hair and drags her still-breathing body to the freezer.

  “I’m sorry it had to be this way,” he says, “but I can hardly trust a lady with a knife when she’s got that look in her eyes, not in this place. It’s better this way. It was always going to be this way. I am so sorry.”

  Sid swings open the freezer door. A crest of white vapor swims
out across the floor and floods over Courtney. Warm blood streams out of her wound and red drops fall from her lips as she tries to pull out the knife, but her strength is evaporating. The light fades, her breath slips. Desperately she tries to crawl along the smooth floor towards the kitchen’s exit, but Sid stops her with a boot on her back, pushing the knife in deeper. He drags her across the floor to the freezer.

  She sees the door is open. She stares into the cold void. Gazing back at her from within the deep dark cold looms a stiff unflinching figure. In her failing, panicked and dying mind it appears to be the reaper himself, come to steal her away from this place, but this is no reaper. Rising above her is the frozen specter of young Tom. His face is fixed with the expression of a man begging for his life, but no mercy came to him. His body, suspended and rocking on a hook lodged into the flesh of his back, transforms him from reaper to sacrifice in an instant.

  His skin is marbled blue, his lips are frozen black. His veins, filled with iced blood, have risen to the surface to form a thick network of deep ridges that protrude from his thin, contracted skin. All that remains of Tom is a head and a limbless torso. Smears of thick chilled blood stains his body and gives a testament to the torture he had endured. A testament that is made truer by his face, on which his last mortal moments of terror and brutality are forever stored; his eyes are deeply buried under fiercely closed bruised lids that have wrinkled and frosted crystal white, mist rises from his open twisted mouth and escapes from his sparkling shoulders and frost-tipped hair. He’s a picture of butchery, and his final contribution to Salvation was his unwilling flesh.

  Sid clumsily picks up Courtney. Her body is limp with shock and agony as the light of her mortal world grows dim. He throws her into the freezer beneath Tom’s corpse. A few cold drops of blood drip from Tom’s four-times amputated body as she gasps for air in the bitter cold space. The brightness of the kitchen narrows and disappears as Sid slowly closes the door. A glacial blanket envelops her body and her broken heart beats its last inside the dark freezing void.

  38

  A drop of love

  As the day draws into its afternoon, a fine daffodil yellow figure floats through the gray corridors. The tall yellow-clad woman tip-taps along the floor in rubber plimsolls and passes rooms full of hard-working people. She waves to them with smiles and happy conversation. Eventually, the light-yellow steps come to a halt at the entrance of the medical bay. She unlocks the door and steps inside.

  On one bed Stephen lies, sleeping. Next to him is a second unmade bed, and on the third sits poor Charlie, no longer dressed in Salvation red, his new gown color is hospital white. Mother, in her fine summer gown takes a seat beside him. She wipes his brow and inspects his injuries. “Oh, my poor child. I’m so sorry,” she says.

  “It’s okay, Mom. I gave them some too. This is just how it is. I heard you call for me, though. I know you tried, I appreciate it, but you didn’t need to.” Charlie lifts his head and tips a plastic cup of water to the less swollen side of his mouth. Taking a small sip, he swallows hard and lies back on his pillow.

  Mother takes his hand. With a shake of her head she looks towards his bruised swollen eyes and torn lips.

  “Father is Father…” she says in a whisper. It’s all she can muster. “…And Father loves you,” she adds.

  To Charlie, Mother seems to have aged a decade in the last few days. In her eyes, he can see some years have come too soon, but she retains a regal grace.

  “I love him too, he just don’t see it. I wanna make you both proud, Mom,” Charlie says.

  Father’s voice, slurring through the loudspeakers, interrupts Charlie’s next sentence. Mother winces at the words in an effort to make sense of the almost incoherent speech:

  “One day will come… one day when the hurricane passes… when it is very safe… we will go out into the world. You will find it very much changed. Very much changed… changed. There are likely to be survivors. You should not approach them. Anybody you see might kill you. Do not think they would interpret you as a friend, no matter who they are or what they say… they are extremely paranoid, they are very vicious and are filled with raging hate from guilt. They dream nightly… dream nightly… and to the last of them, they have tremendous guilt… they are plotting against us, to invade us. They have tremendous guilt… be vigilant… be very, very vigilant.”

  As if on loop, Father begins his speech again in the same slurred manner, then a third time, he trails off during the fourth time, as if he were slipping unwillingly into sleep.

  “Momma, can I ask you a question?” Charlie says.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you know Father was special when you first met him?”

  Mother smiles softly. “Oh, no. Back then he was only sixteen. He came into my mother’s flower store to buy some lilies, as his own mother had just got out of hospital after being very sick. After that first day, he kept coming in and buying flowers every single day for what must have been a week. He must have spent a small fortune!

  “I later learned that he didn’t need all those extra ones at all. He just kept coming in every day to ask me out to dinner, but he was so shy, so sweet, every time he came to the counter to ask me on a date he would lose his courage at the last moment and end up buying whatever flowers were within arm’s reach. One day he came in and ended up buying the biggest, most expensive bouquet! It was the only thing by the counter. He went pale when I rang it up and told him the price, but he just bought it anyway!

  “One day, I asked him, ‘Do you want me to write a card for the flowers?’ He didn’t know what to say so he just nodded. I asked him what he wanted me to write on the card. He said, ‘Can you write from Quincy.’”

  “I said, ‘Is that all?’ and then he got all red in the face and said, ‘No, will you, can you… would you go out to dinner with me tonight?’ So I wrote that on the card! Ha-ha! Then I said, ‘Who should I make the card out to?’ and he looked at me with a funny smile and said, ‘To Anna’ – that’s my name. So, I wrote that down! I read it back to myself and then looked up to him and said, ‘Yes, I’d love to!’

  “That was way before he started preaching. He was so handsome. As time wore on, he took a job as an apprentice preacher, that’s how he got started. At that time he preached the gospel like no one else and it was good, it was good. Success came easy to him. As his star rose, we would go to dinner parties with politicians and make TV and radio appearances together. We were the toast of California in those days. Then something must have happened… but I don’t know what, or when. Even when things happen up close it’s hard to see change, especially when it’s slow and especially when it’s something you don’t really want to see. Maybe you can forgive too much, I really don’t know. Now, all these years later…”

  Mother releases Charlie’s hand, she turns her head and starts to fret with the sleeves of her gown. She looks over the room. There’s no clock, no pictures on the wall, no TV, no radio, no window to gaze out of. The old world had indeed been swept away. She sighs a deep sigh.

  “Charlie, we might as well be at the bottom of the sea for all this place is… Is this the price we pay for salvation? What is a life when it’s wrapped in concrete? Sometimes… I’m sure these walls are getting smaller…”

  Her words drift away. She searches the air for them but finds only empty space. She looks back to Charlie, who has drifted into a gentle sleep. After a moment, she finds her lost words but there’s nobody to hear them.

  39

  All eyes gradually adjust to the darkness

  This morning, perhaps for the first time ever, Drew rose both early and unassisted. He also passed on breakfast in order to head straight to his new job in the laundry room.

  At work, Drew finds a mound of dirty clothes, towels and bed sheets waiting for him. On top of the heap is a shock of red thanks to a collection of blood-soaked towels. Must be Charlie’s blood, he supposes. The Planning Committee did make a mess of Charlie last night, but
even so it seems like a lot of red to clean, which is unfortunate for Drew because, by the grace of God, there are no washing machines in Salvation. He must pummel the stains out by hand in a large trough filled with cold water from a hose. The water runs instantly red on contact with the towels, but blood is a stubborn stain, especially on white and it’s not long before Drew’s hands become wrinkled and sore.

  Alongside Drew are twin brothers, Nick and Rod. Together they push and knead the towels clean.

  “Hey, Drew, you best remove that watch you got on or it’ll break in the water,” Nick says.

  “Oh, yeah, forget it. It’s broken anyway, but thanks. It got drenched in the hurricane before we first arrived. Look at that – 7:11. That must’ve been the time we got here.”

  Rod chimes in, “Hey, you know ol’ Ollie fixes watches in the workshop, right?”

  “Yeah? No, I didn’t know that. How much does he charge?”

  Rod shakes his head and laughs. “You really are new around here, aren’t you? Ha, no cost, man. Just take it to him and he’ll fix it up for you.”

  The workshop is in the bowels of Salvation. It consists of two men working at two desks in the middle of a room. They’ve surrounded themselves with various shelves and storage boxes full of salvaged material. Each box holds a history of broken domestic appliances; some contain bits of vacuum cleaners, others clock parts, one is full of irons, another is full of hair dryers and several boxes brim with broken blenders. On one shelf, next to a pile of snapped spectacles, lies a small collection of broken wristwatches. Always finding some redeeming value in even the most broken objects, the two men throw nothing away.