Life Sentence

by Kim Paffenroth

  He just nodded, then looked out the window. "I see your point, Zoey. Maybe I shouldn't have picked all plays about kings. I should've seen how the very concept of government-let alone something as ancient as kingship-would be too distant and alien for you."

  It was how he always answered a question, I realized later-by agreeing with the questioner and admitting to being wrong. The only person more disarming with rhetoric was Milton, and both men had always held me enthralled. "But let's think if that's the only thing these plays are about. Zoey, the play you read, Macbeth, what was it about? I mean, the main character was a bad king, but what is it about, besides what a bad king is like?"

  I had read enough on the play to know the basic answers. "Ambition. Power corrupts. Revenge. What's appropriate for each sex." There were some snickers. "Some people think he wrote it in support of the Tudors."

  Mr. Caine smiled. "Everyone-ignore that last one!" There were chuckles from the people who were paying attention. "Reductionism, Zoey? I'm shocked!" I almost smiled too, but held back, as it was another of the things-like my hair or skin or voice-that I found especially ugly and awkward that summer. "As though I would assign you something that was just about some bit of historical trivia, as though a work's beauty could be boiled down to something so mundane! But the other themes-yes, they're all in there. And maybe we're blessed with not having to worry about those today. Nobody has too much ambition, or too much power. We're all just struggling to survive. So maybe those themes are irrelevant to us, too. But I think you missed one theme, Zoey. It's biggest in Lear, but it's in Macbeth, too."

  He had me caught without an answer. He was so good at that, but it was never mean-if I'd had the answer right to hand, he would've praised me for that, and if I didn't, like now, he'd coax me along. He didn't want to prove me wrong, he wanted me to be right. So all I could do was shake my head and wait for his help.

  "It's in probably the most famous speech in the play," he hinted. "‘Out, out, brief candle.' I know you know what that speech is about."

  I was surprised then that I'd missed it. "The meaninglessness of life."

  He nodded. He smiled at my success-he always did, and the smile's sincerity was complete and made you feel like you were as tall as the ceiling-but I also saw the sadness in his eyes, the sadness of an old-timer. "I imagine you've thought of that more than once, haven't you? Maybe more than we ever did in my time."

  I nodded. What else could one say in a world where life was so small, brief, and fragile, and death was so terribly large and durable?

  "I think we all have." He looked back out the window. "And what about the supernatural parts in all the plays? You said those things aren't real, they don't exist. When I was your age, we thought like that, that the things people used to believe in were superstitious and silly and science would solve everything-every disease, every problem, every fear would be gone, even death. I think we stopped believing in monsters, and that was our mistake. What we got was quite different than we'd expected or hoped for. And I think what we got was much closer to what Shakespeare thought the world was like-a world where there are many things we don't understand and can't explain, things that frighten and amaze us. And the biggest one of those mysterious and frightening things is right here." He tapped his chest. "It's us. And I don't think that has changed much, either. Even the people out there, the ones who are dead, they're still us, they're still threatening us because they're like us and they remember what it's like to be human, and we know a little bit what it's like to be dead inside."

  "Like Banquo," I said quietly.

  He turned back towards me and nodded. "Quite. Or Lady Macbeth, who wastes away so slowly and painfully. I don't think ghosts and monsters are as unbelievable as I used to think when I was your age." He paused again and looked out the window. "Well, I'm monologuing again at the end of the day, aren't I?"

  "Like in The Incredibles!" my brother helpfully offered, and all I could think was "knucklehead," though I kept my reaction to an all-purpose, dismissive eye-roll.

  Now Mr. Caine really smiled and the laughter was throughout the room. "Zoey and Roger, perhaps sometime you can explain this to us. When your father, in all his infinite wisdom and care, finally splurges and fires up the generator, why is that the only kind of film he ever shows to the rest of our wonderful community?"

  "It's one of his favorite movies!" Roger informed us.

  Mr. Caine kept smiling. "I thought that was Die Hard."

  "He's showing that in a couple weeks. He promised us when school was out he'd show all five of them in a row!"

  "And I'm sure that'll be worth every precious ounce of fuel and every minute of your valuable time. Well, with that wonderful treat in our future, class dismissed."

  The other kids scrambled out of the classroom for lunch. Mr. Caine stopped me and Vera before we ran out and asked if we'd have lunch with him. We often did this, since he was her dad and he and I talked a lot now, getting ready for my vows. On the way outside, we passed Mr. Enders at his little station by the door. He was the school guard. I doubt he could've done much to stop anyone, living or dead, but he was an older man, and it made him feel useful to sit there with his nightstick and whistle and sign-in sheet. He waved us by as he and Mr. Caine started their back-and-forth, which I had heard with very little variation, most days, for the last seven years.

  "Morning, Mr. Caine."

  "How's it going, Mr. Enders?"

  "Oh, can't complain."

  "That's good. No one would listen to you if you did."

  Chuckles followed. I had always wondered how they decided on the script, because when my dad walked by Mr. Enders, it was always, "Hey-working hard? Oh, no, hardly working!" Even back then, I marveled at Mr. Caine's ability to segue seamlessly from the highest speculation and analysis down into meaningless banter. It was another of his charming ways of putting people at ease, because he did enjoy his quips with Mr. Enders, for what they were. There was never any condescension or fakery in it.

  We went outside and sat on the ground in the shade of the school building. Mr. Caine talked to Vera first, asked how her day had been, what she'd done in her other classes. She was kind of at an awkward age at that point, because she both did and didn't want to be treated as a child, but Mr. Caine was always flexible with her moods and listened to her carefully. Of course, I was no less awkward, as I only wanted to be treated as an adult, but lacked the experience, strength, or discipline always to act and respond as one. But again, I never felt nervous or anxious around him.

  All our lunches were meager at this point in the year, before new food was harvested in the summer. I was chewing on some jerky that required extensive application of saliva before my teeth could have any hope of defeating it, even if the odds were 28-to-1. I also had more of Mom's crumbly bread and some dried nuts. Mr. Caine had a bunch of apples from last fall that required extensive surgery with his pocket knife to get out all the bad spots. He shared the good pieces with me and Vera as he cut them out. They were mealy and slightly tangy from having fermented some in the skins, but eating is mostly about the company, I knew even then, and for that I was grateful.

  When Vera had said enough about her day, Mr. Caine turned the conversation more towards me. "Ready for your vows, Zoey?"

  I shrugged. How was anyone ready? It was built up as this big deal, but I still didn't know everything expected of me. "I guess. Dad says I'm really good at all my fighting skills."

  He kept cutting around in his apple. "I'm sure you are. Your dad is great at that. He used to teach me all the time, back before you were even with us. I doubt I would've survived without his help."

  It was the same as in the classroom. I didn't feel like what we were talking about was relevant, and I wanted him to know. "How am I supposed to feel? I just feel like I've been training, and now there's this ceremony-I went to someone's last year, but I don't see what it's supposed to mark or make different about me."

  He kept at the apple, nodding as he
worked the knife. A smile curled up his lips as he thought, and I knew I was in for something. "Funniest thought just occurred to me, Zoey. I remembered as clear as crystal why I wanted to become a professor all those years ago when I was working for it and studying all the time-what it would offer me, teaching older students, so that some of them could become teachers, too. For almost a decade, I prepared to answer questions like you just asked. I got all the right words and categories for it, for dealing with how complex it would be. I learned several other languages, so I could study what other people had written on a difficult topic. And now it's so funny, because I can't explain it to someone for whom the answer really matters."

  He chuckled-not like with Mr. Enders, though he had been sincere then, too-but deeper, quieter, up from the place where we laugh at ourselves and still feel good about it. "So I'll try my best, Zoey, but the words are all big and wrong, so bear with me. I remember at some point, I realized that all real knowledge is relational." He looked at me for the first time since he turned serious over lunch. "It just means that real knowledge-not mere facts, like ‘Zoey is a girl,' but deeper, more fundamental knowledge, like ‘Zoey is now an adult,' or, ‘Zoey is a good person'-knowledge like that is not some thing floating off in the mind of God, or off in a detached, objective plane that we get glimpses of if we try really hard. It's part of and made up of all the relations Zoey has with the world around her. And forget all the mundane, physical relations, like that Zoey is on top of the ground or under the sky. I mean the deep relations Zoey has-that she loves her mom and dad, and thinks her brother is goofy but loves him anyway-those relations. You understand?"

  I nodded. "I think."

  "Okay. So if all the deeper, more important knowledge is relational, then it means that we don't merely know these things-the way I know that Zoey is a scrawny little girl, for example…"

  Vera tittered at her dad's joke at this point.

  "…but that I will these things, I decide them to be true for me, I choose to have a relationship with this knowledge in this way. So that's what your vows will be about. It's not about whether you know how to fight-anyone who's seen you knows the answer to that, it's an objective fact. It's about you deciding with every ounce of your will, and then saying in public, that you commit your life to the service of others. That's a relationship. That's a vow. And how are you supposed to feel? Like you're committing to something new and different and important and scary. So is that how it feels, Zoey?"

  I nodded and swallowed some of the slightly sweet, mostly sour apple. Yes, it was how I felt. It was like the change in how I felt about boys-I wanted to keep it at bay or tame it, but it was a shift that had taken place and I couldn't deny it or postpone it, and I both welcomed and feared it.

  Mr. Caine squeezed my shoulder. "That's all I can do to explain it, Zoey. But you know your dad and I think you're ready, and that should tell you something. I remember the day I first saw you. We were having a bit of a bad day, let's say. There had been a lot of killing and destruction and I wasn't sure we were going to make it. I was scared, really scared, but for one moment I forgot my fear and thought only of you, how the only thing I wanted was for you to survive. And now you've not only done that, you've grown into as good a person as any of the rest of us. You'll never disappoint any of us. Just know that, and I think your vows will be the way they're supposed to be."

  I nodded as I bit another apple piece. It was mushy and sour, not like you expected or wanted an apple to be. I didn't like it, exactly, but I knew it was the way an apple was supposed to taste in June, and that was enough for me.

  Chapter 6

  In the days that followed, I continued to explore the storage units and find useful and interesting things. Even though I was sad that I had a family I could no longer remember, I remained curious and eager to learn about all the things the world still held that were beautiful or good or true. There were a lot of tools in the storage units, and I probably could have figured out a way to get through the fence, but I'll admit I was too scared to try it. For now this seemed a good enough place to pursue my reeducation.

  I found a lot of books in the storage units. I think this place was for storing things people didn't really want, or at least things they didn't want where they could get them easily and use them. So it surprised me there were so many books there, because books were just what I wanted, though I noticed the other people in there with me didn't seem nearly as interested in them. The only things that held their attention for more than a second were shiny things made out of metal, or things with buttons and knobs, and even these they just dropped after a few minutes.

  Maybe the books hadn't just been forgotten in this storage place-maybe they had been put there in case of emergency, to survive whatever it was that had happened to make all the people leave the city or die. Maybe there had been a war or a natural disaster, and this was the special facility to guard against such eventualities by preserving the people's knowledge and other special items. I liked that thought better; it made me feel as if I were fulfilling an obligation to study what had gone before and keep it alive. That seemed like what a professor should do. If that's even what I was. But it was what people in general should do, I think, so what I was before didn't matter anyway.

  It was then that I first tried writing my ideas down. I had found some paper, along with some pencils and pens, and though most of them didn't work, a few had useable points, and I tried writing with those. It proved as impossible as speech. I couldn't read it myself afterwards, even though I knew what it was supposed to say, so it would be completely useless for communication. Something was wrong with my body and kept me from doing these basic things. That's why it was so lucky I eventually found this typewriter, but that didn't come until later.

  Some days passed. A big, springtime storm blew through and the sign above us came crashing down into our area. No one else seemed to notice, but I made a point of finding a broom and sweeping the broken bits away. Then a few days after that, Milton and Will brought more people to stay here with us.

  "Look at him," Will said as he and Milton studied me. "He's changed his clothes. Like he cares what he's wearing."

  I looked at what I was wearing and frowned. Well, if I really cared what I was wearing, I think I would have hunted around for something a bit nicer than this. A faded flannel shirt and some scratchy woolen pants? Hardly the height of fashion or vanity. The shoes were the only things that fit and felt right on me. But I couldn't very well walk around, crunching every time I moved because of all the dried blood on my clothes, and with that big hole in my middle making me feel cold all over. It was just common sense, though I did wonder again why I hadn't thought of it before, back in the city.

  Then I looked at the other people in the storage area with me, the ones I'd come with and the ones who had just entered, and I saw that most of them were torn open in places, or had parts missing, and most all were covered in dried blood, but they didn't seem at all interested in new clothes. It wasn't like I'd kept the clothes to myself or hidden them like the breakable stuff. Once I'd found the ones I put on, I left the box out, but the other people just rummaged through it and flung the things around and I had to keep straightening it up again. But I left it out anyway. It wasn't like the breakable things. If the other people liked throwing the clothes around rather than wearing them, that was their right, and I had no authority to prohibit them. It was sort of my job now, when I wasn't reading or looking at other things, to pick up after them. I didn't mind. It gave me a purpose, more responsibilities, and I liked that.

  Milton now looked at me and my new clothes. This time I didn't pretend not to notice him, so I looked back, though I had put my books away when I heard them coming. There was no sense in having them know everything about me, until I knew more about them and their intentions. Milton smiled his odd smile again. I remembered a word for it later: he had a very eccentric smile. That's the right word. But it was a nice smile. It made me think he cared, and while he wa
s surprised at what I'd done, it didn't upset or alarm him. If anything, he seemed rather pleased. I half hoped he'd give me more things to do around the little compound, but I didn't know how to ask him that, or even if it was his place to do so. "Are you happy in there?" he asked.

  I shrugged. I could've been a bit more enthusiastic, I suppose, but I still didn't like them feeling as though they were doing me a favor by keeping me locked up, even though it was true that it was sort of where I wanted to stay now. "We don't want to hurt you," he continued. "Do you understand that?"

  I looked at Will for a minute, then back to Milton before I shrugged again.

  Milton looked at Will, and then back at me. "Yes, Will can hurt you, if you try to get out or if you try to hurt someone else. It's not safe for people like you to be wandering around freely, because you might hurt someone else. But you can stay here and be safe. All right?"

  This time I nodded, because I appreciated that he had gone to the trouble of explaining why I had been put there. He probably knew what I had done to the woman back in the city, and he certainly couldn't have known how I felt afterwards and how I would never do that again. Even if he had known how I felt, I couldn't blame him for not trusting me. And he must have been able to see how the other people around me pressed on the fence and tried to get to Will to attack him. As he had said the last time he had come by, things seemed to be the way they should be. And I was glad for it, though still a little sad by being lonely in here and unable to communicate with others.

  Will and Milton left after that. I liked how Milton had some sense of my need for privacy and didn't stay and watch me longer. I got my books back out. I was reading a biography of Abraham Lincoln and I liked it very much. I had some of the same problems with reading that I had with everything else-my body wouldn't cooperate. In particular, my eyes kept slipping in and out of focus, like I couldn't control them. But it just slowed me down, and time was one thing I certainly had in abundance.