by Sarah Fine
My father jolts up like he’s been goosed with a cattle prod. His mouth drops open when he sees me, and then his face darkens in a way I haven’t seen since I carelessly dropped my mother’s favorite vase and shattered it into a million pieces. His voice is shaking when he says, “Wen, go wait for me by the staircase. Now.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to respond, simply takes me by the shoulders and gives me a shove through the doorway.
“Sorry, Wen,” the Ghost says through the pipes. He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds exhausted and sad and amused, all at the same time.
By the time my father comes to fetch me, I am chilled to the bone, from both the dank air and the dead-eyed scrutiny of the Ghost’s metal friends. My father takes me by the arm and hoists me up, his jaw working. He holds me in a bruising grip as he pushes me up the stairs ahead of him. He doesn’t let me go as he opens the sliding metal door, and ignores my spluttering warnings of what might lie on the other side. When he sees the crushed spider parts embedded in the torn bottom section of my dress, which is lying in a heap in the now-empty hallway, he squeezes my arm so hard I cry out. He leads me along the hallway, past the dead rat, over the trip wire that triggers the enormous, sharp-legged spider, and up, up, up the stairs.
He escorts me into the clinic and up to my room, where he orders me to change while he brews a pot of tea on the stove. When I emerge from the washroom, he is waiting for me. “How could you be so stupid, Wen?”
I sit down at the table and put my head on my hands. Melik hates me. Mugo likes me a little too much. The Ghost . . . I have no idea. And my father is on the warpath. I’m too exhausted to be respectful. “I might be stupid, but you’re a liar.”
He rocks back; I’ve never spoken to him like this. “I’m not,” he says sharply. “I told you I don’t believe in ghosts, and that’s true.”
“You could have told me you knew who he was. That he was alive.”
“Why would I do that, Wen? He’s been hidden for seven years, and hidden well. No one has even suspected he is alive. And now, within a month of arriving at Gochan, you’re threatening all of that.”
I raise my head. “What am I threatening, exactly? Why do you keep him hidden like that?”
My father’s eyes go wide. “You think I keep him hidden?”
“Onya told me he was just a boy when he died. He couldn’t have taken care of himself. Or is that story a total myth?”
Father sits down in the chair across from mine. “It’s not a myth at all. There was a boy who came to Gochan with work papers that claimed he was sixteen, though he looked no older than thirteen.” He lets out a huff of quiet laughter. “He was a charming kid, and obviously quite bright. When he wasn’t doing odd jobs for the bosses, he came to the clinic to visit me. I’ve never met a child who asked so many questions.” He glances at me. “Except for you, actually. But this boy had no schooling at all. He couldn’t read or write, but it took him less than a month to learn. I got him some paper and an ink stick, and after that he’d leave his questions in writing. I could tell he’d been reading my medical texts.”
“It sounds like you spent a lot of time with him.”
“He had no family, or none he would speak of. He was all alone in the world. I gave him what little time I had.” There’s no apology in my father’s voice. “He hadn’t been here six months when it happened. He was on the killing floor, delivering a message to one of the workers. His shirt got caught on one of the spinner hooks as he ran by.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “It happened very quickly.”
“Tell me,” I whisper.
“You’ve seen the spinners, how they clamp to the cows’ legs and turn them upside down to present the animals’ throats to the butchers. They’re very powerful machines.” He stares at me like he expects me to look away, but I don’t. “Before anyone could help him, he was jerked against the engine’s central casing. You know, the part behind the wheel rack?”
I grimace. It’s too easy to picture. “He fit right through the opening, didn’t he?”
My father nods. “He was very thin. It tore him up, worse than any injury I’ve ever seen here. It ripped his arm off, but he was still stuck there, held by a thread.” He swallows, and I wonder if he feels as nauseated as I do. “His face was pressed against the casing.” His eyes meet mine. “It gets very hot when the machines are running.”
My heart crumbles. I don’t know why I pictured him as whole, as strong and unbroken. “But it didn’t kill him?”
“It very nearly did. I thought I was taking care of a dying boy when they brought him to me. I didn’t expect him to survive. But then . . .” His eyes widen and he shakes his head. “He kept breathing, kept fighting. He seemed unable to give up.”
I think of Tercan, who wanted to live. But even if he had, he would have been turned out into the Ring, penniless and maimed, unable to work, unable to protect himself. Without a lot of help, he would never have survived the frost that comes at night, the ice that freezes the ground. He would have starved or died of exposure. “So after all that, you couldn’t let him go.”
My father blinks at me, like he’s surprised I can grasp this so easily. “There was no way Mugo or Jipu would have let him stay, no matter how fond of him they were when he was whole. As they have said to me many times, this is not a charity. So I told everyone the boy died, and that I’d disposed of his body in the furnace. And then I found a place for him and helped him make it comfortable, somewhere no one would find. Until he was strong enough.”
“Strong enough,” I murmur.
My father’s face twists like he’s bitten into a sour apple. “I never expected him to get quite this strong.”
“If he’s so strong, he could live in the real world. You shouldn’t hide him.”
“You think I’m in control of what he does? Wen, think about it. The Ghost has everything he needs and can keep everything he’s frightened of far away. I’m not keeping him hidden. He’s doing that to himself. He’s never going to leave Gochan One. He’s turned this place into his personal playground.”
My father reaches for the little object I left on the table this morning, the tiny metal me. He holds it out to me and says in a choked whisper, “I just want to make sure he doesn’t decide you’re one of his toys.”
NEVER HAVE I MET a more diabolical machine. I thought the metal spiders were the worst, but they are nothing compared with what sits in front of me. It must weigh as much as I do. It crouches on the desk, hulking and hostile, and in the last few hours it has nearly reduced me to tears three times. My hands ache fiercely from wrestling with it, the pain starting at my fingertips, throbbing through my knuckles, radiating up my arms.
This typewriter is my enemy.
I punch its keys with absolute malice but barely manage to make it cooperate. Every letter is a battle, and I have to press down with all my might to get the little metal paw to swing forward and ink its letter on the paper. If I hit the wrong one or don’t press hard enough, it takes several minutes to correct the mistake. Next to me sits a thick stack of notes, all in Mugo’s tight, precise handwriting, that I must transcribe by the end of the day. I’ve completed two.
The worst part is when Mugo comes out to check on me, which he does frequently. He’s being nice, but his smile frightens me, and so do his fingers, twitching at his sides while his eyes slide over my chest.
As I pull the third completed note from the typewriter, my sore fingers smudge the ink and I stifle a screech of frustration. Mugo chooses exactly this moment to slink out from his office, and he clucks his tongue. “Oh, Wen, what will I do with you?” He says it in such a greasy way, and I’m scared of the answer to his question.
He pats me on the top of the head, like a little girl, but then his hand slides down to my braid. He gives it a sharp tug. “Be more careful. Paper is expensive,” he says in a slightly sharper voice. “I would hat
e to have to deduct the cost from your first paycheck.”
“I’m sorry, Underboss Mugo,” I mumble, my eyes on the paper in front of me: a note to Minny and her cafeteria staff to cut back on the meat in the beef casserole in order to shave costs. “I’ll try harder.”
I pick up the next note, one ordering old Hazzi to come in to discuss his impending transfer. I frown—Hazzi’s arthritis is getting worse every day. “Sir, is this note correct?”
Mugo leans way too close to read it. “It is. I’m bringing in a young man from the Ring to take his place, and Hazzi’s going . . . to a more suitable work environment.”
Before I can ask where that place might be, Mugo’s fingers slip under my braid and brush the back of my neck, and I shudder. He smiles. “What a pleasure it is to teach a young person a new trade,” he says quietly, then strokes my neck, up and down, up and down. “You should wear that white dress tomorrow, the one with the purple thread. This brown dress does nothing for you, and I know you have nicer ones that are more appropriate for someone in your position.”
I nod because it is the only thing that will make him go away. He returns to his office, leaving me frozen in my chair, once again contemplating running away. Maybe it would be best for everyone.
When my eight hours are over, I rush out into the chill air of the afternoon, desperate to escape. I take the long walk to my mother’s cottage and select a few more dresses I’ll never wear again, the petal pink summer muslin and the stately gray winter wool with stark white blossoms lining the cuffs and waist. Khan the tailor is less generous this time, but it’s still enough to pay for the supplies the Noor used during the flu outbreak. No matter whether Melik hates me or not, I can’t allow the company to swindle them like this, to bring them here and make them work for a pittance, to grind them down and leave them with nothing to show for it but debt. I want them to keep the fire in their eyes, their backs straight, their heads high. Melik is like that, always proud, always . . .
Right in front of me. He comes out of the building a few shops ahead, the collar of his work jacket pulled up high around his neck, his shoulders raised against the icy wind from the north, his rust-colored hair unmistakable. He doesn’t see me as he walks swiftly back toward the factory compound.
My mouth goes dry and my eyes sting.
He’s just walked out of the salon. The one with a pink light on even though it’s not yet dark out. I get to the storefront and peek in. A few empty barber chairs sit forlorn in the front parlor. A door at the rear of the space is slightly ajar, and from behind it glows warm yellow light. In that back room probably sits a whore, happily counting up whatever coin Melik paid to enjoy her company. I reach into my pocket, where the heavy silver coins jingle. The price of letting my mother go. The money I planned to use to ease the burden on the Noor.
Melik obviously does not feel the same obligation. He is paying a woman to pleasure him, and the thought hurts me, much more than I could ever have expected. I bite my lips closed and breathe hard, anything to keep from crying. I am so stupid. I imagined he might still like me, even after he looked at me coldly yesterday. I realize, to my shame, that I have been weaving the delicate threads of a fantasy, one where he holds my hand and maybe even kisses me. Me, not just any girl. And certainly not a whore.
But this is the kind of boy he is, and now I know, and it is best that I do. Now I will not waste another second thinking of him. Except . . . I can’t pry my eyes from his back as his long strides carry him through the factory gates and back to his dorm.
I trudge through the gates and wave to the guard, a man with a kind face despite the long scar that stripes his right cheek. He tells me a girl as pretty as I am should smile more often, and I try, for him, even though my insides are all acid and bitterness. With my fake grin pasted to my face, I drift to the cafeteria to grab dinner. Several Noor sit a few tables away. They look skinny and pale, maybe from the sickness, maybe from grief. But when they see me, they place their hand on their heart and turn their palm to me. I guess Melik and Sinan have not told them I killed Tercan. I wonder why.
Their gestures, along with their shy smiles, do something to me. The burn and sting inside of me fades slightly, and my hand slips into my pocket again, closing around the silver coins. I pivot on my heel and stalk back to the central office before I can change my mind.
Onya and Vie, who keep later hours because they work for Jipu, look at me like I’m crazy when I announce I’m going to pay for the Noor’s supplies. “Think of what else you could do with this money!” Vie says. “You could buy new calfskin boots, or ribbons and soap to last for a year! You could buy yourself another dress!”
“Just take it, please,” I reply in a brittle voice.
Vie shakes her head as she takes my coins and crosses out their debt. Onya clucks her tongue when I swear her to secrecy. “You’re wasting good money, Wen,” she warns.
“Were the other workers charged this much for the supplies they used when they were sick?” I snap.
Onya’s brows lower. “The others are Itanyai, Wen. We are Itanyai. We belong here. The Noor don’t. Isn’t that what you said? You seemed to understand it then. Perhaps the fever stole your common sense.”
I bow my head. Perhaps it did, and I need to shut my mouth or I’ll cause more trouble for everyone. I thank them both for their advice—which does nothing to soften their disapproval—and use the few remaining coins to lift a tiny bit of debt off my father’s back. It doesn’t even come close to covering the food I have eaten over the last month, but it’s something.
I leave the office feeling much lighter, not because I am happy, but because there is little left of me. I practically float to the Ghost’s altar. I wait for a cafeteria worker who is wider than she is tall to leave her offering of preserved plums in syrup, to leave her wish of . . . I don’t know. Maybe she wants the Ghost to make her creaking knees stop hurting, or maybe she wants the oven timer to work properly so she stops burning the meat buns, or perhaps she wants the Ghost to save her from being transferred, since that seems to be what many workers fear. It is clear to me now that people ask him for things it is not within his power to give, and sometimes those things happen anyway, and this is how a ghost is kept alive.
Once the cafeteria worker waddles away, I slip behind the column and kneel before his altar. “I wish you would talk to me,” I whisper.
I need his voice to weigh me down. I am alone and emptied out, but I think he could understand this gnawing solitude inside of me, this nakedness that leaves me shivering. My friends seem to think I am wrong somehow, and I wonder if we ever understood one another at all. I have so little of my mother left, and so little of my father as well. He is slipping away from me, changing from a strong, smart man into a weakling, one who cannot protect his daughter from the stroking fingers of Underboss Mugo.
I think he might have been this way all along, and he was just too much of a stranger for me to recognize it.
And then there’s Melik, whom I cannot bear to think about, but who slithers into my thoughts anyway. It’s painfully easy to picture him kissing another girl, touching her, whispering secret things in Noor as he unbuttons her dress. An invisible hand is crushing my heart to pulp.
The Ghost taps on the pipes, and I cross my arms over my chest, curling in on myself. The pinging is comforting, but it is not enough for me now. “Why won’t you show yourself to me?” I whisper. My throat is so tight it hurts. “Please, I . . .” I have no one else.
The tapping falls silent, and it is the last abandonment I can take today. Tears slip from my eyes and hit his table, dotting his offerings, smearing the ink on a prayer for strength and virility. With blurred vision, I push myself to my feet and head back to the clinic.
Of course, I nearly crash into Melik as he files in for his shift. “Making another wish?” he asks in that deceptively light tone full of accusation. He steadies me with hands th
at were sliding over a whore’s skin an hour ago.
“Don’t touch me,” I cry, tearing myself from his grasp. I refuse to look up at him, will not gaze into those cruel jade eyes. “My wishes are not your concern.”
“Wen—”
“No.” I don’t want to hear anything he has to say. I jog toward the administrative hall, lifting my skirt over my ankles so I don’t trip and humiliate myself.
My father is not in the clinic when I arrive. He’s probably out at one of the dorms, caring for some of the many workers who have been struck down by the flu. I strip off my clothes and crawl under my blankets, shivering and naked. The scratchy wool abrades my skin, but that’s what I want, to be worn away so the acid inside me seeps out.
“Wen, are you there?”
I sit up straight, holding the blanket tight around me. It’s the Ghost’s voice; but it’s distant and tinny. “Where are you?”
“Same place I was the last time we talked. I’ve been ill.”
“How are you talking to me?”
“Oh, Wen, that would take a long time to explain. Let’s just say I know every pipe in this factory, which ones lead where.”
“Do you talk to my father like this?”
“Sometimes.”
That explains whom he was talking to up here the night Tercan was injured. I lie back down and pull my knees to my chest, the blanket tight around my neck. “I’m sorry you’ve been ill.”
He chuckles. “I’m recovering. Guiren takes good care of me. I rarely get sick because I’m not close enough to people to catch things, but this time . . .”
“Did you catch it from me?”
He’s silent for a moment. “Maybe. I don’t mind it.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “You don’t mind catching a terrible illness from me? Should I be flattered?”
“You sounded very sad tonight when you came to my altar,” he says. I notice that he hasn’t answered my question, but I don’t press him.
“I’ll be all right.” I don’t know why I’m saying that. It’s a total lie. “Actually, I was thinking of running away.”