The Ivory Tower

by Kirstin Pulioff

  We both jerked at the sound of the third bell.

  “What do you want to do today, then? Steal more supplies, climb the old buildings?” I asked while she folded her rations into her side pouch, handing me an extra two slices of jerky that wouldn’t fit.

  “I’m going to class today,” Christine said, jumping off the post. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  I watched her run down the path to catch up with Mrs. Hutchings and the other kids. When they turned the corner after the meeting hall, I jumped off the post and followed, leaving a trail of dust behind me.

  * * *

  The rest of the day settled into a blur. While I drifted in and out of sleep, Christine’s hand jumped with every answer, as if excelling today would forgive yesterday’s transgressions. People compensated in different ways. I tried not to judge, but mine seemed easier. I folded my arms on my desk and leaned over, closing my eyes, listening to Mrs. Hutching’s voice as she listed off the tragedies of the outside world.

  * * *

  That night proved no better than the previous few. I woke from another nightmare in a puddle of sweat, clutching at my heart, prepared to rip it out to make it stop sharing more memories. The pitch-black room calmed the bite of the nightmare. The darkness provided a strange solace. Cloaked by shadows, the realization of my fears and memories remained hidden. I’d battled many demons over the years, found peace with most of them…but not all. Some nights, the ones that lingered ganged up on me, reminding me that freedom couldn’t even be found in dreams. One image in particular refused to leave, no matter how I pleaded or ignored: my mom.

  I swatted at the ground next to the bed, feeling for the unevenly melted candle near the edge of my mattress. The cool wax relaxed me. I sat up and found the hidden matchbook and grasped the cool brass locket tucked up between the compressed springs. Carefully lighting the candle, I placed it flat on the ground next to my bed. I curved my palm around the flame, blocking the light and looked around to make sure no one else was awake.

  Small crevices between the boards shared everything. Privacy was an illusion. Maybe that was why these midnight hours consoled me. At any other time, if they ignored my cries, it would be from avoiding my pain, not ignorance. Assured of privacy, I moved my palm away from the candle and settled my gaze on the dancing flame.

  I closed my mind, summoning back the visions of my dream, less fearful when I deliberately sought them. The images of my mom left me hysterical only when I wasn’t prepared. I pressed my nail along the outer edge of the locket, holding my breath until the slight click of the latch sounded and opened my eyes. My eyes stung with unshed tears. The woman staring back at me blurred.

  “Hi Mom,” I whispered. A tear broke through me defenses and slid down my cheek. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. My mom didn’t answer; she never did. But in her silence, her eyes spoke to me, offering unspoken promises—dreams of a future free of walls and overcrowded, lonely cabins. Fierce and full of energy, even the matte paper couldn’t dull the passion in her eyes—a trait not passed down to me. I could never look at them for long.

  Wisps of blonde hair fell over her face, and her hands touched the tips, moving them away. Even trapped in a photo, warmth radiated through her. A warmth I didn’t remember, yet also couldn’t forget, drifting at the edge of memory. Though it was a gift, the photo haunted me.

  “I wish you were here.” I traced her square jaw and pressed my fingers to her lips, imaging her response, usually some rendition of our old bedtime routine.

  She sat on the bed beside me, the mattress dipping to her weight. I rolled into her, hugging her legs. With a quick pull, the blankets reached up over my chin, and her deft fingers tucked the edges under the sides of my small body.

  “I’m afraid of the dark mama,” I’d cry, a poor attempt to keep her by my side for longer.

  She smiled knowingly. “Be like the flame sweetie,” she whispered, lighting the candle and placing it on the side table next to me. “Darkness only lasts for a little while.”

  I heard it in my dreams, I heard it in my heart. I just never truly understood what she meant and wondered if she saw me now, would her bedtime message be the same? I doubted it. My fears were much bigger now, and the darkness seemed to last longer. I pressed the sides of the locket together and tucked it under the mattress, poking it through a small hole into a void in the straw filling.

  The flame danced on a short wick. Small beads of hot wax bubbled along the edge. I licked my thumb and finger, extinguishing the flame with a sizzle, relishing the quick burst of pain.

  I leaned back against the bed, folding the pillow in half, staring at the wisps of smoke spiraling up from the wick. Darkness didn’t hide everything.

  Even though my eyes were closed, I didn’t sleep. Thoughts plagued me. Visions of my mom, Christine’s bruised face, and the tower filtered in uninvited, monopolizing my mind. Things needed to change. It was more than the lack of sleep or increase in nightmares. The persistent pull of the tower wouldn’t be ignored. It demanded an answer. One way or another, I had to see it again.

  Morning didn’t come fast enough. I stared out the window, watching the slow transition of the stars fading and turning into streaks of dust and grime speckled along the outside of the window, shadowed by a lightening gray sky as the morning sun rose. When the first rays of light breached the window sill, I flipped the edge of my thin sheet over the pillow and tip-toed over to the side of the room. Sidestepping squeaky floorboards, I lifted the window, slipping out of the cabin. I waited, half expecting Mrs. Booker to come out wooden spoon in hand. But no one stirred.

  The gravel crunched under me and poked through the hole in the bottom of my boots as I walked down the path backwards, watching the cabin for movement. Not that I couldn’t justify my actions, but getting away with it was more satisfying.

  The cabin shrank into a blob of darkness in the distance, fading into the shadows of the forest. We called it a cabin, but ‘forgotten shanty’ seemed more fitting; it looked like something from the back of Mrs. Hutching’s history books.

  I wrapped my arms inside the sleeves of my shirt and walked toward the center of camp. The morning air numbed me, already showing signs of winter’s advance. My teeth chattered and breath clouded my view, forcing me to pull the collar of my shirt up over my chin. I hated to do it, almost nothing was worse than the red rash from where the burlap scratched my skin. Almost. The cold had always been my weakness. And this morning, I felt especially weak, which fueled the decision I had already made. Now I just needed to find a way to convince Christine.

  With my mind focused on strategy, I barely noticed when the gravel road turned to broken stones and piles of debris sorted into supplies and merchandise. The rustling of the flag above announced my arrival at the center of camp. The walk usually took ten minutes, but in this cold, I made it there in five.

  Without the hordes of people crowded in for rations, center camp seemed relatively peaceful. Stores lined the sides of the main road. Simple stone buildings used for housing the general goods, with barely enough room for the monthly camp meetings. At the edge of the road’s loop, stood out community garden. Forgotten and overgrown with weeds, it wrapped our flag in a wreath of neglect.

  Flickering in the wind, a frayed flag marked the center of camp. Torn from the wind’s abuse, the separation between its original colored lines blended as threads waved independently, a last reminder of the time before.

  Rusted farm equipment lined the wall along the side of the meeting hall. On the other side, monopolizing the storefront, wooden boxes stacked high, covering the dusty windows.

  From what we were told about the others, this camp was relatively small, but the one thousand acre compound fooled enough of us into complacency. Not me, though. Claustrophobia hit me every time I walked to center camp, the feeling of the tall grey walls crushing me. And that was nothing compared to the certain doom that paused my heart every time I walked past the factory or greenhouses in the field. Spac
ious or not, it suffocated. There was only one place I had ever felt free: in the forest behind the cabin. And now, even that was threatened.

  The wind burst through, smacking the flag forcefully. I curved my hand over my eyes for a clearer view, then glanced beyond the faded stripes to the barbs and trained gunmen guarding the main gates. As the eyes of one of the guards bore down on me, goosebumps rose along the back of my neck. But just as quickly, he turned his attention back to paperwork. I sped across the street to my spot in line, an indiscriminate spot along the dusty road, and slumped to the ground, waiting for the line to fill in.

  I drug my fingers through my hair, wincing at the tangles, and pulled the mess back into a ponytail. Soft wisps escaped their intended confinement and framed my face. I tugged on the longer pieces and tucked them behind an ear, careful to keep my eyes down. My head pounded and vision blurred as exhaustion finally hit. I cradled my head in one hand while the other found a discarded stick and traced designs. When I was done, I sat back and threw my drawing stick—it was another empty web.

  Before long, people filtered in. The single digits lined up first. Mr. Lindle stretched out in an old chair, legs raised on wooden pallets. The checkers picked through the items in the top box of new deliveries. Hands flung through the air in excitement. Christine and her family showed up shortly after the first deck filled. Her dad shook Mr. Lindle’s hand before finding their spot just off the second deck. They were all smiles today, yesterday’s tension forgotten.

  I cracked my neck and tightened my ponytail. Perhaps my plan would be easier than I thought.

  “Whatcha looking at?” A small voice piped up from behind me.

  I jumped and then smiled at Eli, messing up the mop of dark curls that sprung off the young boy’s head. “Nothing much, little guy. What’d I miss for breakfast?”

  Eli stuck out his tongue and pointed a finger down his throat. “Mrs. B’s breakfast mush. Whatcha think?”

  “I like to think she treats you better when I’m not around.”

  Eli wormed his way under my arm, snuggling into the curve of my collar bone. “I hope you’re always around.”

  I smiled half-heartedly, glancing back at my earlier web design. “I have nowhere to go.” He nuzzled closer, his dark curls tickling my lips. “What’d you do to get here so early?” I asked, noticing none of the other kids had arrived.

  “Charlie tripped,” he said.

  I nodded, thinking about the youngest boy in the cabin, a two-year-old who hit the corner of every table with his forehead. He was another reason I couldn’t sleep some nights.

  Eli scooted away from me and returned with a drawing stick to start his own design.

  A deep laugh rang out. I tore my eyes away from Eli and met Hawthorne’s gaze briefly. A chance glance; his gaze drifted off without recognition. He walked up from the farm communes with his family. I forced my gaze away from his bright smile and where a dimple creased his right cheek into an equally treacherous zone, where his hand hooked the front pocket of his pants, accentuating the strong muscles along his forearms and thighs.

  “Research,” I mumbled, wiping hair off my forehead. “This is all for research.” Just not on him. I sighed and turned my focus behind him, where his parents approached. Standing up, I brushed dirt off my leggings, motioning for Eli to keep drawing. The fact that Mrs. Booker was late worked to my advantage.

  I smiled despite the trepidation rising inside. I had no time for feelings. If what Christine said was true, Hawthorne’s dad might hold the answers to my questions. I had two options. The first was to check out citizen number one—just the thought turned my stomach. I made fun of Christine, but I agreed—he was scary. My other option was almost as gut-wrenching.

  This was my only chance to see if what Christine had said was true. Not that I didn’t believe her, but her parents…they were different. They’d say anything to keep her away.

  The Wentmires joined the line and melted into the crowd. A part of me hoped I could see what I needed from across the street, but that though was dashed immediately. A wide-brimmed hat concealed Mr. Wentmire’s face, and his hand hid within his wife’s grip. Even worse, their bodies blurred under my tired eyes, I wouldn’t see anything from here.

  I swore under my breath, hearing Christine’s words taunt me from my mind. I had to get closer. No one broke the daily routine, and yet here I was, walking along the line, checking out hands. It was absurd. But I was committed. If I could prove her parents wrong, my plan was guaranteed. If they were right—I didn’t want to think about that. I bit on the inside of my upper lip and rolled my palms together. The first step came hardest, and I felt the burning focus of everyone’s eyes on my back.

  I avoided their gaze, focusing on the shoes in line. The transitions between numbers became obvious. Scrappy boots, no sturdier than strips of worn leather and corroded buckles made way to flat, sensible shoes for the factory. Worn holes, patched with mismatched fabric and tight cross-stitching. At the first pair of scuffed boots, I glanced up, hoping it looked casual. Mr. Wisener didn’t notice. His hands hooked his front pocket, but besides the abundance of freckles, his hands were clear. I looked to the next person in line, but Mr. Steen’s were clear as well.

  A sickening feeling climbed from my stomach to my chest. What was I doing? Was I really risking rations or worse over a story Christine’s mom had told her?

  I shook my head, and then stopped mid-step. On my left, Mr. Wentmire’s right hand rested on his thigh pocket. Tortured skin peeked out from beneath his marked cuff. Splotches in a variety of shades twisted together, as if the skin itself rejected the idea of healing.

  My heart raced. If Christine was right about this, what else was true? What did that mean about my mom? Ideas jumbled together, melting into the fog of my mind. I looked up and met his gaze. The wide-brimmed hat concealed his face from far away, but up close I looked him in the eyes. He smiled warmly, tipping his hat slightly and whispered something to his wife. She stared at me with a tight smile.

  I exhaled sharply, hoping to hide the gasp under loud breathing. Sweat beaded up on my forehead and the line seemed to sway. This was too much to handle on a normal basis, let alone when I was exhausted.

  “Sorry, I…” I mumbled, stumbling backwards.

  “Simone?” I stopped at the familiar drawl of my name. I knew that voice, and even now, it made my knees go weak. “Simone?” Hawthorne asked again. One hand tilted his hat forward, hiding his eyes so that the only part of him I saw was his cooked smile and devilish dimple. I felt my face pale even more and my heart catapult to my throat, blocking any coherent thoughts or words.

  “Hi—er—I,” I fumbled, searching desperately for help. The only gaze I found was Christine’s, and her eyes were larger than mine.

  The bell rang and I turned, running back across the road. Never in my life had those bells sounded so beautiful. The line tightened under the chimes, and I ran back into place before the daily routine began.

  Mrs. Booker raised her brows. “Now kids, that’s another example of what not to do.” Mrs. Booker’s gravelly voice said as I fell back into position. I cringed at her words, but couldn’t deny it. I didn’t want them to end up like me either.

  Dragging my feet, I stumbled forward until my eyes settled on the polished black boots and pressed trousers. Unable to stop the progression, my eyes continued up to the Colonel’s face. My breath caught in my chest as our eyes connected. Under the structured cap, a hint of madness gleamed from his dark eyes. A shiver ran down my spine as his eyes lowered from my face to my sleeve. With a curt nod, his gloved hands struck my number off the list.

  The guard waved me forward, empty-handed. My stomach protested the rejection, but I walked forward, happily escaping the scrutiny of the guards. I had ways around restricted rations.

  The younger kids didn’t feel the same. Grumbles and whines echoed behind me. Mrs. Booker ushered the hungry kids across the street into their classroom. The streets quieted, but not the cr
ies of their hunger. I sighed. Hiding the problem was not a solution, no matter how many times they tried.

  Over at our normal meeting spot, Christine sat atop the wooden fence post, licking frosting off a sweet cake.

  I managed a slight smile as I sat next to her. “So, any extra treats in there for me?” I asked, peeking over Christine’s shoulder.

  “Don’t you ever take anything seriously?” She pulled out an extra sugar cube.

  “Not if I can help it,” I admitted, popping the sugar cube into my mouth.

  “You’re absolutely crazy sometimes!” she exclaimed.

  I shrugged and let the sugar melt along my tongue.

  “Nothing today?” she asked, looking at my empty hands.

  “It’s the nature of the number,” I said, grabbing another cube from Christine’s bag. “You get the good food, and I get the trouble.”

  “That’s not all you get. I saw you talking with Hawthorne,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I thought you were done with him.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s nothing,” I said, feeling a blush sneak up to my cheeks.

  “Nothing?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said with finality. “He made that clear years ago.”

  “Sometimes things change.”

  “Not for me. He had his chance and ruined it. Look, I don’t want to talk about him, okay?”

  She nodded and handed me a handful of rolls and sugar cubes.

  I looked at the treats overflowing my hands, then back to her, noticing the way she avoided my gaze and twisted hands in the hem of her shirt.

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “Me, nothing…but my parents.” She scrunched her face together and bit her lower lip. “They may have made arrangements for me.”

  “Arrangements? Wait, with him? Are you serious?” I asked, shaking off the brief pang in my heart.