Life Sentence

by Kim Paffenroth

  "Why's he different from the others?" Will asked Milton quietly. "It's like he remembers things from when he was normal,"

  I didn't know what he meant by that. I know more now, but I still don't understand everything that happened or why some people are different from others. I don't remember enough of it to understand. I still think I am normal, even today. So are these people in here with me. We're different from the people who can talk, but we're all different from each other, and they're different from one another, too. I didn't like the way they watched me, and talked like I was so different, or even that there was something wrong with us. I remembered that we'd killed and eaten some people, so maybe we deserved to be punished, but there was something else in how they talked that made it wrong. I'd forgotten the word, but I read it in a book later-"condescension." It made me feel a little angry and insulted, but I had to admit that whether or not one could talk seemed to make a big difference in how one got along with others. Maybe it was an accurate measure of our worth, and whether we were good or bad people. Besides, Milton and Will had opened the doors for me. Maybe they weren't so bad. I didn't want to be angry at them.

  "I've been studying them more than you have, Will," Milton answered him. "I've had more time, since I started rounding them up. I'm out here with them for days and days." He shook his head. "It seems to affect each one differently. Some of them are worse than the wildest animals. They're violent, completely alone even when they're in a crowd, lashing out at others and even hurting themselves. And others-they look at me and at each other like they love and trust everyone. I know it'd be different if they saw a normal person and their hunger took over, but with each other, at least some of them are peaceful and content."

  Now Milton was confusing me even more, because he said we were nice around him, but not around "normal" people-but then what was he?

  "For all we know, some of them are gentler and more humane now than when they were alive."

  I still didn't understand-was I a nicer person now than before I woke up? But what was I before then? If I were alive then, what was I now? I'm still not sure.

  "And some of them seem to remember a great deal. They recognize each other, and they hold on to things, and I think they're happy, in a way. That's why I wanted to keep these ones apart. I think they'll be happier here. And the violent ones can do what it is they like to do somewhere else-biting and scratching and tearing at things. And the living can be safe. Things are the way they should be, I think."

  Will shook his head. "If you say so, Milton. Just seems weird to me."

  "It's not that different than what we've been doing with our own dead. We don't put them down or just herd them in with others-we put them somewhere safe."

  "I know, Milton, but we knew those people. You said it was just too mean and impersonal to treat them like the others. But even that's a lot of trouble and danger to go to, even if you knew the person. For these ones we don't even know, it doesn't seem like it's worth it."

  Milton smiled and shook his head. "I think sometimes you sound more like Jack than Jonah. Don't you see that it's no real trouble for me to take care of these people more carefully, spend more time with them? And if it makes them happier, then of course it's worth it."

  I wanted to nod, and I really wanted to say something out loud, but I also didn't want them to know I was listening.

  "I don't know how happy dead people can be, Milton."

  Milton smiled again. He had the most peculiar smile, and he seemed to smile a lot. "That's funny, Will, because I often wonder the same thing about living people. I haven't noticed much difference. I believe Jonah will remember better than I do that there's an old saying somewhere that we can't be sure someone's happy until he's dead." He waved the younger man away. "Come, let's leave him alone. It seems rude to stand and stare at him. If you choose not to call him happy, that's fine. He's at least safe from us, and we're safe from him, and that is certainly a good thing."

  They walked away and left me with all the new things I had found. I spent all that day going through boxes, and I didn't even finish with everything in that first storage unit. I could see that there must be dozens more in all the buildings, so I knew I'd be busy for weeks or even months. I cleared a space near the door, so I could sit on the sofa there, and I put a couple chairs in front of the sofa, though none of the others seemed to want to sit down, or really look closely at anything I'd found. They would just wander in, pick something up, drop it, and wander back out. After a while, I hid all the breakable things, or there'd be nothing left but broken little bits all over. I wasn't sure what we'd ever need glasses or dishes for, but I got tired of seeing everything just shatter on the concrete into useless little pieces.

  I found some clothes and I could finally get out of the bloody, torn ones that I'd been wearing for so long. As I took off the bloody jacket, a wallet fell out of the pocket. I picked it up and looked at the contents. It held money, and I thought I understood what money was for, but I couldn't fit it into how things worked in the real world. I knew you were supposed to give money to other people to get things from them, but I didn't see how or why that was possible. Like the stuff in the storage unit, things just sat around and people could pick them up-why would you have to give someone something in order to get what you wanted? I understood trading: I'd already enticed some of the other people to give up a fragile object by offering them something else in exchange for it, so I could get it away from them before they broke it. But I really couldn't understand why someone would give up something in exchange for these little pieces of paper. The pieces of money were sort of pretty, but there were lots of prettier pictures you could trade.

  In the wallet, I also found a couple of little plastic cards with numbers on them. I remembered that these were like money, only their operation was even stranger and more mysterious, because when you gave one of these cards to people, they wouldn't keep it, like they would money. Instead, they would give you what you wanted, plus give the little card back to you. Both the money and the little plastic cards made me feel uneasy in some way, and I stuffed them back in the wallet and then stuck the wallet between the cushions of the sofa.

  Besides these, there were two other plastic cards with a picture of a man on them. I had found a mirror among all the stuff and I looked until I found it again, which took me a minute, as I had hidden it with the other breakable things. The picture was of me, though I had to touch my face, it looked so dry and grey compared to the picture. But it was definitely me. Both these and the other cards also all had the same name on them-"Wade Truman." It was my funniest experience yet, as I concluded it must be my name, but of all the things I'd seen and heard so far, this one held less familiarity than many others.

  I tried to make the sounds of the name, in case hearing it would help me remember, but of course it didn't come out right, so that was no help. I just had no connection between the name and myself. I thought the first name reminded me of water and I thought that was good, as I always felt so dry and thirsty all the time and it'd be nice to have a name that sounded like something as good and pure as water. And I knew there had been a president named Truman, but that was a long time ago, and I wasn't even sure what a president did and I was pretty sure there weren't any anymore, at least not around here.

  One of the cards had "Department of Motor Vehicles" at the top, and the other read "Stony Ridge College" above my picture. I knew the general implications of these places, but not how they specifically related to me. I knew what a car was and that this card proved I knew how to drive one, but I didn't remember if I had a car, or what it was like, or how it felt to drive it. And I knew what a college was, but I didn't remember being in one or what I did there, but I suspected, since I knew so many strange facts and ideas, that maybe I was a professor. That seemed kind of nice, though I suspected that, like presidents, there probably weren't any of those around anymore.

  Unlike the other cards or the money, the ones with my picture didn't make
me uneasy. In fact, I sort of liked them, so I put them in the pocket of the new pants after I put them on. I felt a little funny, getting undressed there in the open, but once Milton and Will had left, I didn't really feel like I was being watched, even though the other people who couldn't talk milled around near me. The other clothes I put on weren't new, of course, but they were old clothes that had been packed in big plastic bags, so they were dry and clean, and not all stiff from caked-on, dried blood, like the ones I discarded. These clothes smelled nice, too, like soap, and I had to admit that everything on me and on the other people around me smelled foul. Our clothes were dry, dusty, used up, like dead leaves-not even the wet, slimy kind you find in puddles or under other leaves, but the dry, brittle kind that are getting closer to being dust than they are to being leaves anymore. I was glad to have new clothes.

  They were kind of loose on me, but I thought they looked nice enough. There was a flannel shirt and some pants and they felt coarse, but also comforting, like a scratchy blanket. It took me forever to negotiate the buttons, both on the clothes I was removing, and even more so on those I was putting on, because with those, I didn't want to tear any buttons off as I fastened them. I got so frustrated when I'd gotten part way through and saw I had more buttons than holes left to match up with them, so I had to undo them, line them up right, and start over. But by the time the sun went down-which was pretty late, because it was getting to be almost summer-I had everything on, even some comfortable shoes.

  I would've said it was time for a walk, to show off my new outfit, but I still wasn't very good at walking. Also, there wasn't anyone around who would show the slightest interest in my appearance, so there seemed to be little point in such an exertion.

  I dragged one of the chairs outside the storage unit and sat down. It was an old lawn chair, the kind with green and white webbing across an aluminum frame. The frame was a little bent, and some of the nylon straps were torn, but it was still usable. After the day's discoveries, it seemed the perfect night to sit outside and dream of all the things I would find and learn in the days to come. I looked up into the purplish dusk as the sun's light faded and the stars came out. I wondered if I'd ever know what kind of a professor I was. Maybe I was a janitor at the college, or a security guard, or a cook in the cafeteria. Without anyone to see whatever was wrong with my smile, I went ahead and smiled at that thought, as it really did seem quite amusing.

  I folded my hands in my lap, and as I did so, I suddenly tensed and my body seemed more numb than normal. It was another of those things I hadn't noticed, another obvious thing that hadn't occurred to me, like leaving the city hadn't occurred to me for so long. I felt a ring on my left hand. I felt it with my fingertips and it was smooth, just a plain band, without any stone or setting. And unlike the college identification card, that could mean only one thing: there was a Mrs. Truman, and, quite probably, even little Trumans. Or at least there had been at one time, back in that time and place and identity before I woke up. And even more disconcerting and far less amusing than not knowing if I were a professor or a janitor, I realized I knew nothing of these people. Even if I could look for them, I wouldn't know them if they walked right up to me. Maybe it was just as well. Milton had said some of us were nicer now than we had been before. Maybe I hadn't been very nice, and the rest of the Truman family would remember that. Or maybe they were violent and angry now, like many of the other people I had met.

  I tilted my head back to look up at the stars again. They looked very small and cold, and in an odd way, mocking. I wondered who or what it was that could be punishing me by taking away the memory of myself, my life, and my family, and leaving me only with such random, disorganized, but most of all, meaningless knowledge.

  Chapter 5

  School was not quite over for the spring, so the day after I went shooting with my dad, I was back in class. Our community didn't have enough kids to divide us into age groups, or "grades" as our elders called them. Since there weren't many people born right around the time the old world ended and ours began, bigger kids like me were in classes with anyone ten or older. We used part of an old school building for classes, so I had some idea of the enormous scale of the old world, but I still find it hard to imagine that those rooms were once filled with children. To multiply that by the thousands of towns and cities I see on an old map-that makes it harder to grasp than the idea that there were once billions of people on the planet.

  It almost frightens me, the idea of all those people jammed into cities, all those children packed into schools. I know I'm not supposed to say it, but I find myself wondering if things are better now. Only the dead are crowded, and we're free, the way I like to be. Again, I don't know. Maybe people back then liked being all crowded together. Still, the idea frightened me, and I liked the way I was living in my world.

  Even though all of us bigger kids were in the same class, we did go to different teachers for different subjects, which apparently is how it's always been. Mr. Caine, Vera's dad, taught English. I always liked him. He was quiet and intense, not easy-going and cheerful like my dad. I thought it was nice how he was so different from my dad, yet they were such good friends, like they needed each other for balance or guidance in some strange way. I hoped I could find a friend like that someday, but only with the transition to Piano Girl did I begin to have a normal social life, so I was a little behind on forming friendships with the other kids.

  Vera and I used to play more when we were little. I always envied her light brown complexion; her dad was white and her mom was black, so in the winter, her skin was the color of wheat, and in the summer it would darken all the way to a walnut brown. Mine varied between porridge white-all mottled and pasty-and steamed crawfish pink. And of course, there were all the ugly freckles across my cheeks and nose. But the two-year age difference now seemed more of an obstacle between us than when we were younger.

  She still believed boys were gross and smelled bad. That summer when I was twelve, I could begin to see how they were strangely interesting, even compelling, though I still wasn't sold on the idea of having them or their smell around all the time, or too near. Sexuality was something my mom had explained to me soberly and clinically, and something about which the kids at school constantly tittered, lewdly and ignorantly. But either way, it was something I understood only vaguely and abstractly. For that year, I was content and intrigued to observe boys from a slight distance, but I knew things were different now than they had been when I was younger.

  Of course, none of those vague feelings that boys might not be smelly little toads applied to my younger brother, Roger, even though, overall, we had the kind of playful competition and bickering that siblings always have, with no real harsh feelings between us. He had always been the extrovert I never could be, and the cheerful, boisterous personality of my dad was much less appealing or even bearable in the smaller package of my little brother.

  Tall for his age and athletic, he barely tolerated the piano lessons to placate our mom. For me, the piano had been part of salvaging my social life. For him, it was an impediment, though even back then I knew he was being an unusually good sport to go along with it for our mom's sake. A lot of kids wouldn't have, or would have complained even more bitterly and frequently. Of course, Dad had something to do with keeping the complaining to a minimum, as he didn't take much off us two kids. He kept us in line, and made us as strong as we needed to be in this world.

  But Mr. Caine and Milton both made us strong, too, even if their methods and the strength they built were wholly different and even hard to pinpoint or describe. As I had tried to articulate it to my dad, and as I have since come to understand it better, his was the strength of certainty, of facts, of tools and guns; theirs was the strength of curiosity, doubt, mystery, and awe. I was lucky that I thrived on both, and by my twelfth year, I sought them out like they were food or water. A book felt as right in my hand as a pistol; the anxiety and frustration fed by some of the books Mr. Caine assigned were a
s satisfying to me as the pistol's report and the clang of the frying pan as I punched another round into it. I was lucky, even if that luck and the gratitude for it only dawned on me gradually as the years passed.

  Mr. Caine had all of us bigger kids finish the school year with a play by Shakespeare. The youngest of our group, the ten- and eleven-year-olds, had read Julius Caesar. The rest of us, twelve and up, were split between Macbeth and King Lear. Since not everyone had read each play, we went in groups, giving class presentations on the plot and characters and answering some basic questions of interpretation or historical background. I presented on Macbeth, though I had read both of the others in my spare time. As I said, I was like that back then, reading and studying whenever I could.

  Looking back, the plays other than Lear were straightforward enough, and the theme tying them together was accessible enough even to adolescents-kings gone bad, corrupted by personal flaws and bad decisions, turned into familial and national tyrants, bullies, and murderers. But there was something unreal about all the plays, and as often as I kept things to myself, sometimes I could find a voice for my frustration, as I did that morning. "I don't understand why we read these, Mr. Caine. The plays, they're all set in a world even before yours. They talk about kings and queens and empires. I can look all those things up in a book, but they're not part of our world. I mean, there are even witches and ghosts in these books-those never existed, they're just made up. None of them matter to me. Nothing in these seems real."

  I had read enough books about mean teachers-I'd already read Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man on my own-to know how far out of line I might be considered, and how cruel and wicked people could be. But I had known Mr. Caine my whole life, and I had as little fear with him as I had with my dad. I knew he loved good questions-not frivolous or nit-picky ones, though he would patiently answer those, too-but challenging ones, ones that got to the why of what we were reading or discussing.