The driver parks in front of a set of wide porch steps, and Pressia remembers the lyrics to that recording her mother loved so much, her nightly lullaby—the girl dances across a porch, lonesomely.
And now a woman steps out of the house to greet them. She’s wearing a bright yellow dress as if to match the house, and at first her skin looks so white it seems to glow. Is she a Pure? But then Pressia realizes that it is not her skin. It’s a kind of stocking made of a thin, stretchy, almost shiny material. It covers every inch of her body and is fitted with gloves for her fingers and small neatly stitched holes for her eyes and mouth—and now that the woman is close enough, Pressia even sees holes at the nostrils. The woman is as rail-thin as Ingership. Her angular shoulders look like knobs of bone.
Ingership slides out of one side of the car, and Pressia follows.
As his wife calls out, “Delighted! Delighted you made it!” the stocking doesn’t shift. It perfectly conforms to the muscles of her face beneath it—neither puckering around the lips nor pressing flat the nose. She wears a wig, a lightly fluffed blond wig that hides her ears and is held back by a wide clip at the back of her neck. She doesn’t venture down the steps. Instead, she steadies herself by gripping the handrail.
Pressia follows Ingership up the steps and stands on the porch. Ingership kisses his wife on the cheek, but it isn’t her cheek. It’s the stocking-skin. “This is my fine wife!”
Ingership’s wife is a little shaken by the sight of Pressia, as if she isn’t used to seeing survivors. One of her ankles buckles in her pointy shoes.
Pressia hides her doll-head fist behind her back. “Nice to meet you,” she says softly.
“Yes,” Ingership’s wife says.
“Oysters on the half shell?” Ingership asks his wife.
“Chilled and ready!” she says with a smile, the stocking of her face smooth and taut.
PRESSIA
OYSTERS
THE MOMENT THEY STEP INSIDE, Ingership’s wife shuts the door and then presses a button on the wall that automatically extends rubber seals along the door’s outline. To keep out the dust? Pressia wonders. If so, it works well. The walls are cream-colored and glossy. The wood floors shine. There’s a painting of this exact farmhouse surrounded by hills of snow, all white and sparkling as if ash doesn’t exist.
“Welcome to our humble abode,” Ingership says, and then he runs a finger along a strip of white wood running, not quite waist-high, along the walls. He holds the finger up. It’s lightly smudged with ash. He doesn’t make the effort to unlock the metallic hinge of his jaw, and so he speaks through clenched teeth. “Icky?” he says to his wife.
She looks stricken. Her head bobbles slightly. “Icky!” she chirps.
Pressia has never seen so much elegance—a rug stitched with bright blue flowers, a banister carved to a curlicue at the foot of the stairs, and a golden ceiling. They turn into a dining room with a long table covered in a red cloth. The plates are set, the silverware shines, the walls are patterned with more flowers. A giant light is attached to the ceiling, made of glinting glass, not shards but finely cut shapes. Pressia can’t remember the word for these lamps. She’s heard her grandfather use it when she was playing with Freedle, and he decided to put a candle in Freedle’s cage. It lit the room from above in a pretty way.
She thinks of Bradwell. She can’t help it. What would he say about this display of wealth? He’d call it sick. You know God loves you because you’re rich! She can hear him making fun of the place. She knows she should be disgusted too. Who, in good conscience, could live here knowing how everyone else lives? But it’s a home—a beautiful home. She wants to live here. She loves the shiny rounded wood of the chair backs, the velvety curtains, the ornate handles of the silverware. Somewhere overhead there must be a bathtub and a tall fluffy bed. She could feel safe here, warm, peaceful. Is wanting that life so wrong? She can see Bradwell’s expression in her head as he says, Yes, actually, it is so wrong. She reminds herself that it doesn’t matter what Bradwell thinks of her anymore. She’ll probably never see him again. The thought makes her chest ache again. She wishes it didn’t. She wishes she didn’t care.
There is a large manila envelope on the table with PRESSIA BELZE written on it in thick dark ink. It’s ominous, but she’s not sure why. Instead of worrying about it, she turns her attention to the food—a bowl of bright corn kernels shining with oil, what must be oysters on the half shell, tan globs set in glistening water atop rugged white shells, and eggs. Whole white eggs, shelled, and cut in half, their yellow yolks firm but still moist. Are these the antiquities that Ingership tinkers with—those still not quite perfected? So close? They look perfect to Pressia.
The table is set for six. Pressia wonders if anyone else is expected. Ingership takes a seat at the head of the table, and his wife—whose name Pressia was never given—pulls out the side chair to Ingership’s left. “Here you are,” she says. Pressia sits down and his wife helps by pushing the chair in, as if Pressia is incapable. She wedges the doll head under the table.
“Lemonade?” Ingership’s wife asks.
Lemons—Pressia knows what they are, but she’s never had lemonade. Where would she get lemons?
Ingership nods without looking at her.
Pressia says, “Yes, please. Thank you.” It’s been so long since she was mannered, she’s not sure if she’s said the right thing or not. Her grandfather tried to teach her manners when she was little, because he said it was how he was raised. His mother had told him, “In case you have to eat with the president one day.” It was as if, without a president, the argument for manners fell apart.
Ingership’s wife walks to the table with a shiny metal pitcher so chilled that its sides bead with moisture, and she pours each of them a glass. The lemonade is bright yellow. Pressia wants to drink it but waits. She decides it’s best to do everything that Ingership does, in the exact same order. Maybe this will make him like her more, if he thinks she’s like him in some way. In the brightly lit room, the metal of Ingership’s face shines like chrome. She wonders if he polishes it every night.
Ingership picks up his white cloth napkin, snaps it open, and tucks it under his chin. Pressia does, too, one-handed. Ingership pulls down the brim of his military cap. Pressia doesn’t have a cap and so she smoothes her hair.
When Ingership’s wife lifts the plate of oysters, he raises two fingers, and she sets two shells on his plate. Pressia does the same. Ditto one scoop of oiled corn. Ditto three eggs. His wife then says, “I hope you enjoy the food!”
“Thank you, doll,” Ingership says and then looks at his wife and smiles, proud of her. His wife smiles back. “Pressia, my wife was part of the Feminine Feminists back in our youth, you know, before…”
“Ah,” Pressia says, although she doesn’t recognize the term Feminine Feminists at all.
“She was on the board, in fact. Her mother was a founder.”
“Very nice,” Pressia says quietly.
“I’m sure Pressia understands the struggles,” Ingership says. “She will have to balance her officer status with her femininity, of course.”
“We believe in real education for women,” Ingership’s wife says. “We believe in achievement and empowerment, but why does that have to be at odds with simple feminine virtues—beauty and grace and a dedication to home and family? Why does that mean we have to swing a briefcase and be manly?”
Pressia looks at Ingership because she isn’t really sure what to say. Is his wife reciting something that was once an advertisement? There is no real education for anyone anymore. Home life and family? What’s a briefcase?
“Dear, dear,” Ingership says. “Let’s not get political.”
His wife looks at the tight stocking on her fingertips, pinches at them, and says, “Yes, yes. I’m so sorry.” She gives a smile, bobs her head, and starts to walk quickly to what must be the kitchen.
“Wait,” Ingership says. “Pressia is a girl after all. She might like to see
a real kitchen in all of its refurbished glory. Pressia?”
Pressia hesitates. Honestly, she doesn’t want to leave Ingership. She’s come to rely on him for cues to proper behavior, but she has to accept the invitation. It would be rude not to. Girls and kitchens. She’s disgusted, but she says, “Yes! Of course! A kitchen!”
Ingership’s wife looks intensely nervous. Her face, of course, is very hard to read, hidden as it is by the stocking, but she picks at the tips of the stocking on her fingers again nervously. “Yes, yes,” she says. “This will be a real treat.”
Pressia stands up, puts her napkin in her chair, and pushes the chair in. She follows Ingership’s wife through the swinging door.
The kitchen is spacious. A large overhead light hangs above a long thin center table. Counters are spare, tidy, recently wiped down.
“The sink. The dishwasher,” Ingership’s wife says and points to a large black shiny box under the counter. “The refrigerator.” She points to a large box with two compartments, one big on the bottom and one small on top.
Pressia walks to each thing and says, “Very nice.”
Ingership’s wife walks to the sink. When Pressia is at her side, she flips a metal handle with a ball on the end, and water gushes. She whispers, “I won’t put you in harm’s way. Don’t worry. I have a plan. I’ll do my best.”
“Harm’s way?”
“Did he not tell you why you’re here?”
Pressia shakes her head.
“Here,” Ingership’s wife says, and she hands Pressia a small white card with a red line down its center—bright red, like fresh blood. “I can help, but you must help save me.”
“I don’t understand,” Pressia whispers, looking at the card.
“Keep hold of it.” Ingership’s wife pushes Pressia’s hand. “Keep it.”
Pressia takes the card and puts it deep into her pant pocket.
And then Ingership’s wife turns off the faucet. “And that’s how it works! Pipes and all!”
Pressia looks at her, confused.
“You’re welcome!” Ingership’s wife says.
“Thank you,” Pressia says, but it comes out more as a question.
She leads Pressia back out of the kitchen to the dining room. Pressia takes her seat.
“It’s a beautiful kitchen,” Pressia says, still confused.
“Isn’t it?” Ingership says.
Ingership’s wife gives a small bow and disappears back in the kitchen. Pressia hears pots banging.
“I apologize,” Ingership says with a laugh. “She knows better than to talk politics like she did.”
Pressia hears a noise in the entranceway and glances in that direction. There is a young woman wearing a stocking much like Ingership’s wife’s stocking, except not as pristine and clean. She wears a dark gray dress and boxy shoes. She has a bucket and sponge and is quietly wiping down the walls, especially the spot that Ingership deemed icky.
Ingership picks up an egg half and pops it into his mouth. Pressia does too, immediately. She lets it sit in her mouth for a moment, running her tongue along the slick surface of the egg, and then chewing. The soft yolk is salted. It tastes heavenly.
“You’re wondering,” Ingership says, “quite naturally—how? How is this possible? The house, the barn, the food.” He whirls a hand in the air, indicating everything. His fingers look surprisingly dainty.
Pressia quickly eats the rest of her eggs. She smiles, tight-lipped, with her cheeks full.
“Well, I will let you in on a little secret, Pressia Belze. And it is this: My wife and I are liaisons between here and the Dome. Do you know what that means? Liaisons?” He doesn’t wait for Pressia to answer. “We’re go-betweens. Bridge builders. You know it was a lost cause here before the Detonations. The Righteous Red Wave was trying very hard and I am deeply thankful for the Return of Civility. But something had to give. The others struck first; even Judas was part of God’s plan. You know what I’m saying here? There were those who embraced civility and those who never could. The Detonations, in some way, we must trust, were for the greater good. There were those who were prepared and those who didn’t deserve entrance. The Dome is good. It watches over us like the benevolent eye of God, and now it asks something of me and you. And we serve.” He glances sharply at Pressia. “I know what you’re thinking. I must have been one who, in God’s great plan, didn’t deserve entrance into the Dome. I was a sinner. You were a sinner. But that doesn’t mean we have to continue to sin.”
Pressia isn’t sure what to focus on first. Ingership is a liaison who believes that the Detonations were a punishment for sin. It’s what the Dome would like the survivors to believe—that they deserved all of this. She hates Ingership, but mainly because he’s got power. He’s dealing in dangerous ideas, throwing around God and sin to benefit the powerful because he wants to be more powerful. Bradwell would probably cuff his throat and dent his metal face by pounding it into the wall, and then give him a lecture on history. But Pressia doesn’t have that option. She sits at the table and glances at the manila envelope. Is this what Ingership is leading up to? Giving her the envelope? She wishes he would just get it over with. Does the Dome want something from her? And what happens to her when she refuses? She swallows the last of her eggs. She nods as if agreeing with Ingership, but really she’s thinking about the eggs. She’s tasted each one, acquired them into her stomach.
Ingership lifts an oyster, tips it up like a tiny cup of tea, and swallows it whole. He then looks at Pressia, as if goading her, or is it a test? “A true delicacy,” he says.
Pressia picks up an oyster from her plate. She feels the rough edge of the shell on her fingers and then on her bottom lip. She tilts the shell up, and the oyster glides to the back of her throat and then down. It’s gone so quickly, Pressia isn’t even sure what it tasted like. Her tongue holds on to a bit of brine.
“Delicious, no?” Ingership asks.
Pressia smiles and nods.
Ingership slaps his hand on the table, triumphantly. “Yes, yes,” he says. “The old world in your mouth for a moment, the most satisfying pleasure left to us.” And then he slips one hand into his jacket and pulls a small photograph from an inner pocket. He puts it on the table and slides it to Pressia. “Do you know where we are?”
It’s a picture of Ingership and his wife. They’re standing in the corner of a white room. Beside them is a man about Ingership’s age in a head-to-toe contamination suit. You can see that the man is smiling behind the small window covering his face. Ingership is shaking the man’s thickly gloved hand. He’s holding a plaque. His gaunt face with its shiny metal and his wife in her stocking are smiling grotesquely. They’re both wearing all white. Have Ingership and his wife been into the Dome? Is that what life is like there? Contamination suits, faces behind small windows? Pressia feels her stomach lurch. Is it because of the picture? Has she eaten too quickly?
She pushes the photograph across the table to Ingership. A prickle of sweat breaks out across her back. She takes a sip of lemonade. It’s the wildest thing she’s ever tasted—sour and sweet at once. Her tongue arches up to the roof of her mouth. She loves it.
“It was a commendation ceremony in the Dome,” Ingership says. He plucks the picture up and looks at it. “It’s an anteroom really. We went back through a series of sealed chamber doors.”
“Do they wear suits like that all the time?”
“Oh, no! They live in a world like the one we used to live in except safe and controlled and, and, and—pure.” He returns the picture to the interior pocket of his jacket then pats it warmly. “The people in the Dome are, in a very measured way, having children. They will one day want to repopulate the earth. And they need people to test, prepare, secure, and—this is key, Pressia Belze—this is fundamental—defend.”
“Defend?”
“Defend,” Ingership says. “This is why you’re here.” He glances over his shoulder to see if the person is still there wiping the walls. She is. I
ngership snaps his fingers, and she quickly picks up her bucket and disappears down the hall. “You see, a Pure has escaped the Dome. They actually expected the break and were preparing to let him go. The Dome doesn’t want to hold anyone against their will. But if he was going out, they wanted to have him wholly supervised—outfitted with ear implants so they could hear him in case he needed help and with lens implants so that they could see what he sees and, if in danger, they could bring him home.”
Pressia remembers her sighting of Partridge—his pale face, his tall and lanky body and shorn head, just as the whispers had reported. She knows Ingership’s explanation is off, but she can’t say how exactly. “Who is this Pure?” Pressia asks. She wants to find out how much Ingership knows, or at least what he’s willing to tell her. “Why were they going to all this trouble?”
“That’s officer thinking, right there, Pressia. It’s what I like to see. He is actually the son of someone quite important. And he escaped a little earlier than the Dome expected, before he could be put under and outfitted for his own protection.”
“But why?” Pressia asks. “Why would he want to leave the Dome?”
“No one has ever done so before. But this Pure, Ripkard Crick Willux—also known as Partridge—has good reason. He is looking for his mother.”
“His mother is a survivor?”
“A wretch, yes, sadly. A sinner like the rest of us.” Ingership sucks down an oyster. “This is the odd thing. The Dome has new information of her survival and now believes that she’s in a burrow, a sophisticated but small burrow. The Dome believes she is there against her will, held prisoner. Dome forces are trying to locate this burrow with their advanced ground-level surveillance. The Dome wants to get her out safely before the burrow is destroyed. We also do not want the Pure to be hurt in the process. And because the Pure is not properly outfitted, we need someone to be with him, to guide and protect and defend him.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. The Dome wants you to find the Pure and stay with him at all times.”
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