by Turner, Ivan
And then I saw Jennie.
She was five years older, a little taller and a little more filled out, but it was definitely her. And, in case I needed any more convincing, she looked up when I called her name. She couldn’t initially identify the direction of my voice so she began to look around. I called out again and stepped away from my guards. This, they did not like. Dragging me backwards, they hauled me toward the entrance of the building. It was now clear of people and they seemed eager to keep me away from the people being moved out.
I called to her again. And again. I did not stop calling her name and I did not stop struggling against my captors. Finally, her eyes found me and she looked confused for a moment. Of course, I was clean and shaved and it had been five years for her. I would have given her my name, but her confusion was momentary. She said my name aloud and, though it was phrased as a question, I knew that she knew who I was. Then she jumped out of the line and started toward me. For whatever they used to restrain me, they doubled their efforts with Jennie. Five years older and five years stronger was she, moreso for the difficult work she had been doing. But it wasn’t enough. They forced her onto the bus and made sure she stayed in her seat while she pounded on the window and silently called out to me. The last I saw of her as I was dragged inside was the eerie portrait of her face in the dirty window.
“But I need to see her,” I cried out. “Let me go.”
It was no use. They did not understand me and probably would not have cared if they did. They railroaded me into an elevator and we rode up six floors to my new home.
I did not begin work the next day. I was in no condition to work, having had a late night to begin with and being unable to sleep at all after seeing Jennie, and Samud had yet to formally place me into a unit. He came to see me that afternoon and found me a glum and miserable companion.
“Something is troubling you, my friend,” he said over a private lunch.
“Do you have a pen?” I asked.
He seemed confused, but was willing to play along. He removed a pen from his breast pocket and handed it over. Taking a clean napkin, I wrote down several names.
Wyatt Cristian
Jeremy Cristian
Martha Cristian
Olivia Cristian
Devin Cristian
Jack Cristian
Jennie
I handed it back to him and he read the list.
“Jennie?” he asked. “There must be several thousand Jennifers…”
“With an ie,” I told him. “It’s not common.”
“But it may not be that way in her records.”
“Then check last night’s manifest.”
“Excuse me?”
“She was on that bus. Your guards wouldn’t let me get to her.”
He looked down at the list again. He did not attempt to address my anger at having been kept separate from her. He promised to find out all he could and pass the information on to me. As we finished eating, he informed me that I would begin work the next day.
I was roused at five the next morning. I had gone to bed early the night before. The apartments were small but adequate. Privacy was apparently not a priority because there were no locks on the doors. There was closet space for clothing and a bookshelf for books, although mine was empty. There was a private bathroom, but no kitchen. I had been given soap, towels, toothpaste and toothbrush, and an electric razor. The bed was comfortable if a little too firm for my taste. And it was clean and dry and it eased some of the burden I had been feeling.
Breakfast was short and light, consisting of cereal and eggs. There was milk or juice and I drank juice. There was no coffee. I became an instant curiosity to the others in my unit. People looked at me over one another’s shoulders and I heard some whispering, but it didn’t faze me. After breakfast we were loaded onto a bus similar to the one that had taken Jennie away. I sat alone, looking out at the dark city streets.
I had never done any sort of manual labor in my life. I was a white collar kid with a white collar future that turned into a white collar present. Just so we’re clear, putting on a suit and tie every day and going to an office doesn’t mean you don’t have a menial job. Putting on a denim shirt and ratty blue jeans and sticking your hands in the mud every day doesn’t mean you do. I learned the first shortly after college. I learned the second when I became a laborer for the United Arab Nation.
Most of the laborers working on the reconstruction of New York were United States civilians waiting for extradition, though there were a few Arab men. The foremen and administrators were all Arabs and they mostly talked down to us and insulted us, but there wasn’t any of what you might expect to go on in a prisoner work force. Even the insults were meaningless since I couldn’t understand the Arabic and their English was atrocious.
Since it didn’t seem worthwhile to put me through any extensive training, I was given simple tasks such as digging and clearing debris by hand. We were excavating what had once been the Wall Street financial district. Here, the buildings had been severely damaged and reconstruction had only barely begun. Most of my companions seemed to resent the hard work, but I found it to be therapeutic. It required little concentration, though safety demanded alertness. I was able to focus my thoughts on other things, largely daydreams in which I would be reunited with my family or what I might wish to say to Jennie if I had the opportunity to contact her.
At the end of that first day, I was exhausted, but impressed with the organization and treatment of refugees. Our work day had begun at 6:30 am and ended at 5:00 pm. This may seem like a long day, but we were given breaks sporadically throughout the course of the day to eat and use the toilet. Lunch was at eleven and lasted an hour and fifteen minutes. We ate sandwiches in a cafeteria and were able to select from a large array of books and magazines that had survived the invasion. There was also television, but, again, everyone spoke Arabic so I couldn’t understand it. Instead, I turned my attentions to six year old periodicals that helped catch me up on what had happened leading up the war.
We were given dinner back at the apartment complex and then allowed ninety minutes of socializing before being dismissed to our rooms. I had no interest in socializing. Even if I had, I wasn’t given the opportunity. I was escorted back to my apartment immediately after dinner where I found Samud waiting for me.
“Unfortunately,” he explained. “We won’t be able to get you out of work for our research. I understand that you are tired, but now is the only time we have. I expect Dr. Miktoffin will not keep you for more than an hour.”
I looked down at myself. Though given the opportunity to wash our hands and faces, none of us had showered. I was sweaty and filthy and tired and in no mood to participate in any research. Besides which, I was not interested in cooperating just yet.
“Did you get information on any of the people on my list yet?” I asked.
He looked sheepishly away. “I did not have the opportunity to look into it today.”
I took a deep breath. “We’ll begin the research when you have.”
When he turned back, his expression betrayed anger at this manipulation. I wondered in fear for a moment what he would do, but he did nothing. “Dr. Miktoffin will be disappointed.”
When it was clear that I wouldn’t respond, he stood and left without saying good night. I noticed absently that my heart was beating a regular rate despite my momentary fear. Perhaps I was just too tired for the adrenaline rush. Stripping off my clothing, I showered and was in bed before the rest of my peers had finished their socialization.
Samud came to see me again the next evening, but this time he did not come empty handed. This time I could not help but notice the reactions of the other prisoners as I was once again escorted from the dining hall before socialization. I wondered how often this would happen and how it would affect my life. Once again, I had no interest in forming ties with anyone. Emotional bonds made skipping through time very difficult. I didn’t want to add any more names to the list I
gave the next “Samud” after the next leap.
He did not offer his hand to me. Apparently he was still sore about my refusal to go with him the night before. Instead, he handed me a folder of papers. I took them out eagerly, looking through the documents of information on each of the members of my family.
Wyatt and Jeremy had relocated to the Midwest, Wisconsin to be more precise. Using government relief offered to displaced citizens, they were able to buy a modest house and move the two families in together. It was a surprise to me that they would do so because, though Attenda had always been extremely cordial and patient with Martie, Martie’s jealousy had not allowed her to offer the same courtesy to her sister in law. Devin, now thirteen years old, lived with them and went to school in town. Livvie, at twenty one, had finished college early and moved to California. She was in the process of launching a journalistic career. Jack had enlisted and been killed in action during the Battle of 95 (95 referring to the stretch of highway over which the Americans and the Arabs were fighting as opposed to the year which had been 2011). I felt a pang of grief as I read of Jack’s death, but I doubt that it was for Jack himself. As I mentioned, I rarely saw the boy and always envisioned him as a slacker. Of course, he had proven me wrong, showing up to fight for his country in its time of need. Still, there had been no connection between us. For Jeremy, though, I could not imagine what the loss of a son must have done to him. And Martie… The sheet of paper in my hands could not tell me the emotional damage Martie had endured. As a woman whose life had amounted to her children and nothing else, having half of her reason for existing stripped away must have been a devastating blow. I felt for her as I had never felt for her before.
The last sheet was Jennie’s. She was listed as Jennie Campbell, born March 26th, 1994. That made her twenty years old. The picture was from her internment, which had occurred on July 4th, 2009, just a few days after I had disappeared.
“I noticed that the location of her arrest is the same as the location of yours,” Samud said after giving me several minutes to stare at the sheet. “I have also brought you this.” Reaching into his suit pocket, he pulled out the small and battered notebook I had been using for my journal.
I took it, not saying anything right away. Finally, I put the sheets back into the folder and placed it onto the bookshelf. The journal I kept with me. “I’d like to take a fast shower before we go and visit your friend.”
Dr. Miktoffin was a squirrelly little man with large round glasses and graying hair. He reminded me of Albert Einstein. I’m also not sure that he was Arabic. His accent sounded faintly Indian and I’m not sure of the origins of his name. I suppose it was my own American ignorance that prevented me from singling out his origin in the Middle East. Every time we met he would greet me both politely and excitedly. He took numerous blood tests and various types of scans. To me it didn’t seem as if his equipment was top of the line, but I wasn’t concerned as long as the needles were clean. He explained that he believed whole heartedly in what I said of my experiences. He was certain that mine was a rare physical condition that had sprung up in the human population. With so few subjects, it was difficult to trace the beginnings of the leaping syndrome, but he was determined to trace the cause. Of course, tests immediately following my last leap would have provided immeasurable information but that opportunity had been wasted in ignorance. Instead, he developed what he called a base line and hoped that it would allow him to predict my next jump. That, at least, would be useful information.
On the nights that I did not go to see the doctor, I was allowed to spend the socialization period with my fellow workers. Actually, the term allowed is a bit of stretch. Required is closer to the truth. All of the units in the building were brought to a series of large ball rooms, called common rooms, for snacks and socializing. It was like an informal affair every night. There were folding tables and folding chairs. The floor was made of wood and could have been an adequate dance floor if there had been music. But there was none. No one was allowed to go off on his or her own and without Samud coming to rescue me, I was forced into the common rooms to sit and read or watch incomprehensible television or brood. I spent long hours looking at the picture of Jennie, easily seeing the fifteen year old girl in the picture that had been taken when her manifest had cleared. Of course, I asked Samud if I could contact her in some way, but the answer was no. Apparently, the United States was against communication with people still inside UAN occupied territory. Since Jennie had already been extradited, there was no way for us to get in contact.
Though I did not make friends or have ready conversation with my coworkers, it is unfair to say that I did not get to know them. Conversations were loud and rumors spread through the crowd. There were a handful of outcasts among us that sought even my company once in a while. I didn’t have anything really to say to them, but they needed to talk to someone so I did the polite thing and listened.
Jonah Jones was the worst of the lot. He was this six foot six inch black man who weighed in at well over three hundred pounds, with none of it suffering for the very square meals we ate day in and day out. I don’t want to say that Jonah was a bad guy or that he wasn’t nice in his own way, but he was desperate for human companionship and would latch on to whomever could not find a socialization partner. I never found a partner and was thankful that I was not Jonah’s first choice. Unfortunately, I was not his last choice either. When most of the others paired off or better, if it was just me and maybe a couple of others going it alone, there was Jonah, looking for an ear to bend. He had this unnaturally high voice that completely contradicted his appearance. Over the past several months before we had met, hauling bricks and girders had turned Jonah into a physically imposing individual. He was also the most gentle person that I had ever met. One day, he found a flower at the work site. It was just a dandelion and it had been uprooted by someone, but it shone a bright yellow. Jonah brought the flower to me and laid it on the table that evening. He spoke about that flower and how it reminded him of the fields where he grew up. Though it smelled only of dirt and some worker’s shoes, he imagined a smell that brought him back to his mother and father. It was a touching story, truly, but it ran a little long (forty minutes) and I was at the edge of my tolerance when it concluded. The next day, the flower had turned black and Jonah had sought me out to orchestrate part two of the story. Mercifully, I was called away by Samud on that day.
Jonah waited for me.
I heard the story the following night.
Another of Jonah’s favorite talking partners was Jesse Cataldo. I would put Jesse at about forty or forty five years old. Her face and her hair were a contradiction on that score. There were no wrinkles and when I looked past the dirt and fatigue, I saw a stunning woman. Her hair, however, seemed always tousled and it was white from root to stem. She often tied it back just to keep it out of her face. To be honest, I don’t know what Jonah saw in her. She was rude to him constantly, but I got the impression that it had nothing to do with her demeanor. There was a disconnect inside of her that forced outbursts. They were never vulgar or even hurtful, but they were usually abrupt. She would say to him, “No! I can’t talk today.” And that would be that. Then she would go off to a chair by herself and mutter.
Abraham Ventana was the group’s veteran. He was senior in both age and time served. Whenever Abraham sat down to talk to a group, I tried to find a seat close so that I could hear what he was saying. His stories were both informative and entertaining. It was 2009 when he had been captured, which meant he had been in the control of the UAN for five years. The early time he spent as a prisoner was time he described as comfortable if not pleasant. The United Arab soldiers had never treated refugees as military prisoners. There had been no questions or torture. The accommodations, of course, were nothing like we had in the work unit, but the days passed and passed and passed. When the work units were formed, Abraham, at fifty eight years old, was assigned quickly. It was a wonder he had never found himself on
a cleared manifest.
Before the invasion, Abraham had been a jack of all trades. Some of his life’s work included painting (portraits early on and then houses), repair and installation of air conditioning units, cab driver, nurse, veterinarian’s assistant, computer network technician, and a host of others that I simply don’t remember. He was good at almost everything and there wasn’t a member of the group who didn’t like him or envy him. On my fifth night, the first night I had the option to sit and socialize, he came over and introduced himself to me. I shook his hand and gave him my name, but I was still brooding over the picture of Jennie so he didn’t stay.
Though the rules were clearly posted, they were not strictly enforced. As I mentioned, fraternization outside the socialization period was considered against the rules, but there were nights when some of the workers would go to the rooms of some of the other workers. The only secrets between the members of the unit, myself included, were those that were tangled in contradicting stories. One such story surrounded Doreen Lander and Carlos Castillo. They were together almost every socialization period. Sometimes they would be joined by others, frequently by Jesse Cataldo. At night, they would find each other as well, but the reasons were not clear. Some people speculated that there was a romantic relationship between the two that was sometimes enhanced by Jesse. Others thought they were just “working” together. One thing that was not a secret was that Carlos was planning an escape. He was young, nineteen or twenty years old. In contrast to Abraham, Carlos was one of the very last refugees to be captured. The work units were already in full force at the time and the excavations and renovations were ferreting out all of the stragglers. Carlos’ story is one of hardship and heroism. Much like Jennie, he had lost family and friends and survived as a child against the soldiers and the gangs that had formed in the streets of New York. Unlike Jennie, however, he had a careless streak in him. Instead of seeking the safety of high floors and shadowy alcoves, he had slept on the street, almost challenging anyone to oppose him. He’d even spent time in the subways. Jennie had told me about the subways once. She’d gone down there expecting to find shelter and had found only death and lunacy. With her foot on the last stair, she had changed her mind and gone back up into the air.